and did it, would "get the razz." A number of them have cornered the ticket agent, a nervous individual with a taffy-candy mustache, and are telling him something in low solemn tones. He is listening sheepishly and rather suspiciously, and saying "Aw!" and "Aw, git out!" and "Aw, g'wan!"
Three o'clock.
There is a crackling electric tension in the air—then acheer, and a general surge toward the platform's edge. The locomotive blows its warm quick breath against their faces, crashes past, stops. Strings of girls begin to spill from every coach. Magazine cover girls, these. Lovely laughing girls in furry coats and bright hats and wee ridiculous slippers. Blonde girls and dark, tall girls and tiny, all shapely and delicately tinted and sweet with perfume. Each poses an instant on the train steps, to look and to be looked at . . . then becomes a part of the crowd, and jostles, and grows breathless, and cries at last, "Oh, there you are!" . . . and is hailed happily, and seized, and borne away. . . .
Prom, glittering pageant of a glittering age, has begun.
"And how's Molly?"
"Oh, fine, Jock, and so glad to be here!"
The roadster was parked at the rear of the station. Jock assisted Molly to it and into it, stowed away her luggage, then slid in himself over the side and slouched down beside her. "We'll have to wait a minute," he remarked. "I promised Bones we'd take him and his girl up with us."
They smiled at one another, Molly meaningly and
