One finger punched the bell, and his handsome nose was thrust through the iron grating in an effort to determine what was wrong below, when Yvonne's door opened again. "Come here, Jock Hamill," she called softly.
Jock went, in two strides.
"I've just read the poem," said Yvonne. And rising on her tiptoes, put her lips against his . . .
When she withdrew them, slowly, she said, "Oh, I am sorry for you"
And was gone again.
Sublime to ridiculous was exactly the distance from Yvonne's apartment to the University Club. There Jock found an uproarious trio, who greeted him with huzzahs and immediate earnest requests to "drink up."
"As soon as you acquire as elegant a bun as we've got," said Dopey Lane, "the expedition starts."
The expedition started at quarter of five. It may best be described as seven suitcases, two instrument-cases, three traveling-bags, three bags of golf clubs, a steamer trunk, and four young gentlemen in sardine formation, all moving along in, on and about an equipage of an ilk not to be easily determined because there was little to be seen of itself except the wheels.
For a time the collective mentalities of the four young gentlemen were bent upon the intricate business of getting out of New York. But once they were out, and on the open road, they relaxed and became themselves. They hooted. They sang. Bill Olmstead rode for some time astride the hood, playing his saxophone, so that they might sing the better. Wearying of this,
