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 “Oh, did we? Well, well, it takes a long time to spend the afternoon, don’t it? But we don’t want to go anywhere, do we?”

“Oh, yes,” Mr. Talliaferro contradicted him smoothly. “To-morrow we are going up the Tchufuncta river and spend the day fishing. Our plan was to go up the river and spend the night, but this was found impossible. So we shall go up to-morrow. Is this unanimous? or shall we call for a ballot?”

“Gabriels pants,” the niece said to Jenny, “I itch just to think about that, don’t you?”

Fairchild brightened. “Up the Tchufuncta?” he repeated. “Why, that’s where the Jackson place is. Maybe Al’s at home. Major Ayers must meet Al Jackson, Julius.”

“Al Jackson?” Major Ayers repeated. The best poet in New Orleans groaned and Mrs. Wiseman said:

“Good Lord, Dawson.”

“Sure. The one I was telling you about at lunch, you know.”

“Ah, yes: the alligator chap, eh?” Mrs. Maurier exclaimed. “Mr. Talliaferro” again.

“Very well,” Mr. Talliaferro said loudly, “that’s settled, then. Fishing has it. And in the meantime, the Commodore invites you all to a dancing party on deck immediately after dinner. So finish your dinner, people. Fairchild, you are to lead the grand march.”

“Sure,” Fairchild agreed again. “Yes, that’s the one. His father has a fish ranch up here. That’s where Al got his start, and now he’s the biggest fisherd in the world—”

“Did you see the sunset this evening, Major Ayers?” Mrs. Wiseman asked loudly. “Deliciously messy, wasn’t it?”

“Nature getting even with Turner,” the poet suggested.

“That will take years and years,” Mrs. Wiseman answered. Mrs. Maurier sailed in, gushing.