arm and led him to the table. His companions turned out to be Rusk Baldwin, the well-known columnist, and Roy McKain, the novelist. Byron recognized both names at once.
I can't see, McKain averred to Byron, after a few trivial remarks had passed back and forth, how fellows like you find anybody to talk to up here. Just look around! I'll bet you're the only college man in the place.
Oh, Byron knows a few, Dick remarked with a wink.
Well, it's wonderful up here, Baldwin exclaimed. I had no idea it would be like this. It's as wild as a jungle. Look at that waiter dancing the Charleston up the floor.
I don't see how he holds that tray of glasses, the novelist said. He doesn't spill a drop.
This remark reminded Dick that he had forgotten as yet to fill his friend's glass. He supplied his omission.
Can you Charleston, Mr. Kasson? Baldwin inquired.
Not very well, Byron responded.
McKain regarded him with unfeigned amazement. Why, he asserted, I thought all coloured people could dance the Charleston, didn't you, Dick?
I don't know much about it, was Dick's answer.
McKain poured out half a glass of gin and filled the receptacle to the brim with ginger ale. His enthusiasm mounted, soared.
