it.”
Breathless, disheveled, they found themselves half an hour later seated on a platform at an orchid-covered table like a huge catafalque. From the hundreds of tables below a foam of faces stared up at them. Flashlights seared the air. Bands blared. The loudspeakers created pandemonium.
“And when,” said the King seated beside Leslie, “does our host appear?”
With awful suddenness the loudspeaker system went off. It had exaggerated every sound. Conversation had necessarily been carried on at a shout. Now the abrupt quiet was as shocking as the noise had been. The comparative silence stunned one. From the dais where he sat with the guests of honor boomed the unctuous voice of Congressman Bale Clinch in tones which, under stress of the megaphones, had been meant for the confidential ear of his dinner neighbor alone. In the sudden silence they now rang out with all the strength and authority with which, in Washington Congress assembled, he frequently addressed his compatriots on the subject of Texas oil rights in general and Jett Rink’s claims in particular.
“That wildcattin’ son-of-a-bitch Jett Rink is drunk again or I’lleat a live rattlesnake. They’re soberin’ him up in there——” He stopped, aghast, as a thousand faces turned toward him like balloons in a breeze.
Big though his voice was it had carried only through a fraction of the great concourse. But the repetition from mouth to mouth had taken only a few seconds. A roar, a Niagara of laughter, shook the room.
In the midst of this Luz Benedict appeared suddenly at the main table, she had not made her way through the main room, she seemed to have materialized out of the air. She was wearing a white chiffon gown, not quite fresh; no jewelry, her fair hair still tied back in the absurd horse’s tail coiffure, though now a little spray of tiny fresh white orchids replaced the black ribbon that had held it.
She leaned over her father’s chair as casually as though she were in the dining room at the ranch. “Who told the joke?” she inquired casually. “I could use a laugh.”
Bick Benedict turned his head slightly, he bit the words out of the corner of his mouth. “Where’ve you been? And Jordan?”
‘Parn me, lady,” said a waiter, and placed a huge slab of rare roast beef before Bick Benedict. It almost covered the large plate, it was an inch thick, astonishingly like the map of Texas in shape, and it had been cut from the prime carcasses flown by refrigerated plane from Kansas City. Luz viewed it with distaste as she leaned over her father’s shoulder.
“Listen. Jordy’s looking for Jett, he says he’s going to beat him up he——”
A girl in a strapless scarlet evening dress appeared on the platform at the far end of the great hall, she began to sing to the accompaniment of the orchestra, her lips formed words but no note was heard in the absence of the sound mechanism, there was an absurd quality in her mute conquetry as she mouthed the words of the familiar Texas song that now opened the evening’s program.
Bick Benedict jerked around in his chair to face his daughter. “You’re crazy! Where is he?”
“Louder!” yelled a man in the audience. “Louder!” someoneechoed from a far corner. “What’s the matter with the loudspeaker! Jett! Jett, get busy in there.” With knives and forks they began to tap the sides of their water glasses or wineglasses or bourbon tumblers, the clinking rose to an anvil chorus. The girl in the red dress faltered, stopped, smiled uncertainly, went on with her soundless song.
From the far far end of the room young Jordan Benedict strode down through the jungle of tables close-packed as mesquite on the plains. He was alone. A neat grey suit, a neat blue bow tie, his blue-black hair that was so like his mother’s seemed a heavy black cap above his white face. Straight toward the table marked Number One—the table on the dais.
Bick Benedict muttered an apology to the right to the
Breathless, disheveled, they found themselves half an hour later seated on a platform at an orchid-covered table like a huge catafalque. From the hundreds of tables below a foam of faces stared up at them. Flashlights seared the air. Bands blared. The loudspeakers created pandemonium.
“And when,” said the King seated beside Leslie, “does our host appear?”
With awful suddenness the loudspeaker system went off. It had exaggerated every sound. Conversation had necessarily been carried on at a shout. Now the abrupt quiet was as shocking as the noise had been. The comparative silence stunned one. From the dais where he sat with the guests of honor boomed the unctuous voice of Congressman Bale Clinch in tones which, under stress of the megaphones, had been meant for the confidential ear of his dinner neighbor alone. In the sudden silence they now rang out with all the strength and authority with which, in Washington Congress assembled, he frequently addressed his compatriots on the subject of Texas oil rights in general and Jett Rink’s claims in particular.
“That wildcattin’ son-of-a-bitch Jett Rink is drunk again or I’lleat a live rattlesnake. They’re soberin’ him up in there——” He stopped, aghast, as a thousand faces turned toward him like balloons in a breeze.
Big though his voice was it had carried only through a fraction of the great concourse. But the repetition from mouth to mouth had taken only a few seconds. A roar, a Niagara of laughter, shook the room.
In the midst of this Luz Benedict appeared suddenly at the main table, she had not made her way through the main room, she seemed to have materialized out of the air. She was wearing a white chiffon gown, not quite fresh; no jewelry, her fair hair still tied back in the absurd horse’s tail coiffure, though now a little spray of tiny fresh white orchids replaced the black ribbon that had held it.
She leaned over her father’s chair as casually as though she were in the dining room at the ranch. “Who told the joke?” she inquired casually. “I could use a laugh.”
Bick Benedict turned his head slightly, he bit the words out of the corner of his mouth. “Where’ve you been? And Jordan?”
‘Parn me, lady,” said a waiter, and placed a huge slab of rare roast beef before Bick Benedict. It almost covered the large plate, it was an inch thick, astonishingly like the map of Texas in shape, and it had been cut from the prime carcasses flown by refrigerated plane from Kansas City. Luz viewed it with distaste as she leaned over her father’s shoulder.
“Listen. Jordy’s looking for Jett, he says he’s going to beat him up he——”
A girl in a strapless scarlet evening dress appeared on the platform at the far end of the great hall, she began to sing to the accompaniment of the orchestra, her lips formed words but no note was heard in the absence of the sound mechanism, there was an absurd quality in her mute conquetry as she mouthed the words of the familiar Texas song that now opened the evening’s program.
Bick Benedict jerked around in his chair to face his daughter. “You’re crazy! Where is he?”
“Louder!” yelled a man in the audience. “Louder!” someoneechoed from a far corner. “What’s the matter with the loudspeaker! Jett! Jett, get busy in there.” With knives and forks they began to tap the sides of their water glasses or wineglasses or bourbon tumblers, the clinking rose to an anvil chorus. The girl in the red dress faltered, stopped, smiled uncertainly, went on with her soundless song.
From the far far end of the room young Jordan Benedict strode down through the jungle of tables close-packed as mesquite on the plains. He was alone. A neat grey suit, a neat blue bow tie, his blue-black hair that was so like his mother’s seemed a heavy black cap above his white face. Straight toward the table marked Number One—the table on the dais.
Bick Benedict muttered an apology to the right to the
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