“Hold on a minute, Jimmy.”  Hanson heard Bob Flick’s voice for the first time, soft as the Pearl’s, liquidly southern, gentle, even apologetic.  “I’m sorry, stranger”—­he leaned forward courteously to Hanson—­“we all would enjoy accepting your hospitality, but you see, it ain’t etiquette.”

A silence that could be felt had fallen upon the room.  Mrs. Gallito, pale under her paint, was nervously biting her handkerchief and glancing from one man to the other, while the Pearl leaned back in her chair as lazily, languidly, scornfully indifferent as ever.

Then Hanson laughed, and a little thrill went over the room.  The new man was game.  “Ain’t that just your ruling, stranger?” he asked pleasantly.  “Since we’ve not been introduced, I can’t call your name.  But I hold that it is etiquette.  Jimmy, get on your job.  The occasion when I first set my eyes upon the Black Pearl has got to be honored.”

“Hold on just a moment, Jimmy.”  It was Flick now.  “You see,” again to Hanson, his voice more apologetic than ever, “you being new here, naturally don’t understand.  It ain’t etiquette on a Benefit night, when Miss Pearl Gallito, whose name you have, most unfortunately, just miscalled, condescends to dance.  I’m afraid I got to ask you to take back your order and to apologize to Miss Gallito.”

Hanson was on his feet in a minute.  “I’m sure ready now and always to apologize my humblest to Miss Gallito, although I don’t know what’s the offense.  But the order stands.”

“Oh, Pearl,” wailed her mother, “you raise mischief wherever you go.  You know Bob wouldn’t go on so if you’d ask him to stop.  You just like to raise the devil.”

Then, for the first time, the Pearl’s face became animated.  It broke into brilliance, her eyes gleamed, she showed her white teeth when she laughed.

“Quit your fooling, both of you,” she said composedly, rising to her feet.  “I ain’t going to have tales flying all over the desert about the ructions stirred up the night I danced for the benefit of the flood sufferers.  Shake hands, you two,” imperiously.  “Go on, do what I tell you.  That’s right,” as the two men perfunctorily shook hands.  “Bob don’t mean a thing, Mr. Hanson.  It’s just his temper, and there ain’t going to be any wine, because I’m going home, but—­” and here she smiled into his eyes—­“you can walk a piece of the way with me, if you want to.  Come on, mother and Hughie.  Good-night, Bob.”

CHAPTER II

Hanson had decided that the best way to gain certain information he desired was to seek the bar-keeper, who, after his constitution, gossiped as naturally and as volubly as a bird sings; so, quite early the next morning, he sauntered into Chickasaw Pete’s place.

Jimmy, who was industriously polishing the bar and singing the while one of the more lugubrious and monotonous hymns, looked up with his customary little chuckle.