“Only got three and they’re all in use,” the waiter replied.
Bob Eden resumed the battle, his elbows held close, his muscles swelling. With set teeth and grim face he bore down and cut deep. There was a terrific screech as his knife skidded along the platter, and to his horror he saw the steak rise from its bed of gravy and onions and fly from him. It traveled the grimy counter for a second, then dropped on to the knees of the girl and thence to the floor.
Eden turned to meet her blue eyes filled with laughter. “Oh, I’m so sorry,” he said. “I thought it was a steak, and it seems to be a lap dog.”
“And I hadn’t any lap,” she cried. She looked down at her riding breeches. “Can you ever forgive me? I might have caught it for you. It only goes to show—women should be womanly.”
“I wouldn’t have you any different,” Bob Eden responded gallantly. He turned to the sheik. “Bring me something a little less ferocious,” he ordered.
“How about the pot roast?” asked the youth.
“Well, how about it?” Eden repeated. “Fetch it along and I’ll fight another round. I claim a foul on that one. And say—bring this young woman a napkin.”
“A what? A napkin. We ain’t got any. I’ll bring her a towel.”
“Oh, no—please don’t,” cried the girl. “I’m all right, really.”
The sheik departed.
“Somehow,” she added to Eden. “I think it wiser not to introduce an Oasis towel into this affair.”
“You’re probably right,” he nodded. “I’ll pay for the damage, of course.”
