“Hugh, for God’s sake, come on,” cried Dick Ravenel.
The four medical men went out into the pearl light. The town emerged from the lilac darkness with a washed renascent cleanliness. All the world seemed as young as Spring. McGuire walked across to Ravenel’s car, and sank comfortably with a sense of invigoration into the cool leathers. Jeff Spaugh plunged off violently with a ripping explosion of his engine and a cavalier wave of his hand.
Admiringly Harry Tugman’s face turned to the slumped burly figure of Hugh McGuire.
“By God!” he boasted, “I bet he does the damnedest piece of operating you ever heard of.”
“Why, hell,” said the counterman loyally, “he ain’t worth a damn until he’s got a quart of corn licker under his belt. Give him a few drinks and he’ll cut off your damned head and put it on again without your knowing it.”
As Jeff Spaugh roared off Harry Tugman said jealously: “Look at that bastard. Mr. Vanderbilt. He thinks he’s hell, don’t he? A big pile of bull. Ben, do you reckon he was really out at the Hilliards to-night?”
“Oh for God’s sake,” said Ben irritably, “how the hell should I know! What difference does it make?” he added furiously.
“I guess Little Maudie will fill up the column to-morrow with some of her crap,” said Harry Tugman. “’The Younger Set,’she calls it! Christ! It goes all the way from every little bitch old enough to wear drawers, to Old Man Redmond. If Saul Gudger belongs to the Younger Set, Ben, you and I are still in the third grade. Why, hell, yes,” he said with an air of conviction to the grinning counterman, “he was bald as a pig’s knuckle when the Spanish American War broke out.”
The counterman laughed.
Foaming with brilliant slapdash improvisation Harry Tugman declaimed:
"Members of the Younger Set were charmingly entertained last night at a dinner dance given at Snotwood, the beautiful residence of Mr. and Mrs. Clarence Firkins, in honor of their youngest daughter, Gladys, who made her debut this season. Mr. and Mrs. Firkins, accompanied by their daughter, greeted each
