AT BREAKFAST, MALLORY presided at the head of the table. Bud Chandler, arriving a few minutes late, stared at his comrade surprisedly.
“Why, Skipper!” he said, “What this trip is doing for your complexion! You look thirty years younger. Where did you get them pretty pink cheeks?”
Mallory growled, “Sit down, pal, and shut up. The Old Man’s grabbing forty, and he deserves ‘em. He and Norton ran into a loft-bound vacuole last night, had a hell of a time pulling out. Didn’t you hear the commotion?”
“All I heard,” complained Bud, “was somebody in my room snoring. It woke me up once, and what made me maddest was when I found out it was me.” He nodded to the assembled passengers, sat down and made wry faces over his grapefruit juice.
Albert Lemming, the swarthy-skinned jewel merchant en route
