THE BRASS BOWL
"Ass!" Maitland told himself fiercely, striding forward.
In another moment they were on dry land. The girl slipped from his arms and faced him, eyes dancing, cheeks crimson, lips a tense, quivering, scarlet line. He met this with a rueful smile.
"But—thank you—but," she gasped explosively, "it was so funny!"
Wounded dignity melted before her laughter. For a time, there in the moonlight, under the scornful regard of the disabled motor-car's twin headlights, these two rocked and shrieked, while the silent night flung back disdainful echoes of their mad laughter.
Perhaps the insane incongruity of their performance first became apparent to the girl; she, at all events, was the first to control herself. Maitland subsided, rumbling, while she dabbed at her eyes with a wisp of lace and linen.
"Forgive me," she said faintly, at length; "I didn't mean to"
"How could you help it? Who'd expect a hulking brute like myself to be ticklish?"
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