If Schneider had
had anything resembling a skin, he would have felt about as comfortable
as Mother Eve at a woman's club. Lockerbie's scowl was no joke; and
Follet had a way of wriggling his backbone gracefully.--It was up to me
to save Schneider, and I did. The honor of Naapu was nothing to me; and
by dint of almost embracing him, I made myself a kind of absorbent for
his worst breaks. It was not a pleasant hour for me before the rest
began to loosen up.
In my eagerness to prevent Lockerbie from insulting his guest, I drank
nothing, myself, after the first cocktail. So it came to pass that by
the time I could safely leave Schneider to the others, I found myself
unwontedly incarnating the spirit of criticism.
They were a motley crowd, coalesced for the moment into a vinous
solidarity. Follet spat his words out very sweetly; his poisonous grace
grew on him in his cups. Lockerbie, warmed by wine, was as simple--and
charming--as a wart-hog. Old Maskell, who had seen wind-jammer days and
ways and come very close, I suspected, to piracy, always prayed at least
once. Pasquier, the successful merchant who imported finery for the
ladies of Naapu, rolled out socialistic platitudes--he was always
flanked, at the end of the feast, by two empty chairs. Little Morlot
began the endless tale of his conquests in more civilized lands: all
patchouli and hair-oil.
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