The first dance was a quadrille and to Ben's chagrin his number was not among those called, but the floor-manager, having opened the ball with all due ceremonies, stood flashing his teeth before Nan, frankly conscious of the honor he was doing her.
"Isn't it fun!"" whispered Nan, while her eyes sparkled with mischief as the "catch" of Las Rubertas led her away.
There was nothing in Ben's expression to indicate that he regarded it in that light.
Joe Brindell slid into the seat Nan had left vacant.
"You look kinda lonesome, Ben," he jeered, "settin' here all by yourself like a wall-flower. In fact you look some sour."
"I feel sour!" Ben declared wrathfully. "If that there chicken king"—in slurring reference to Ignacio Bojarques's occupation of poultry raising—"don't call some Americano numbers next time I'll tell him where to get off at."
"It does look a little p'inted," Joe admitted, "but you don't want to forget that our principal argamints is cached over there in the wood-box. We hadn't ought to have give
