Read Online High Time by Mary Lasswell - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Mary Lasswell
Tags: General Fiction
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Johnny should be very proud of you! You are a gracious hostess and preside beautifully!’
Mrs. Rasmussen nodded, although she did not know what it all meant. Neither did Darleen, but it sounded impressive. Mrs. Feeley came back and said she was ready to start all over again. She pulled some folded papers from her pocket and showed them to her friends. They were tissue seat-covers. She handed them to Mrs. Rasmussen and said:
‘Just put these in your bag! We may not always have the luck to be in elegant dumps like this!’
‘What will the ladies have for dessert?’ the waiter asked.
‘Bring me some ham an’ eggs,’ Mrs. Rasmussen laughed.
‘Some toasted crackers and Camembert?’ the waiter coaxed.
‘By all means!’ Miss Tinkham said. ‘Camembert! My favorite cheese!’
‘Sure! Bring on the cheese! Go good with the beer!’ Mrs. Feeley commanded, back in her element now that she knew what he was talking about.
The ladies looked curiously at the runny triangles of cheese.
Mrs. Rasmussen was feeling real skittish, for she turned and asked the waiter where her clothespin was, holding her nose suggestively.
Darleen said she had never had such a pleasant time in her whole life. The ladies said they had not either. When the bill and the waiter had been taken care of, they rose to go—Mrs. Feeley charging ahead as usual.
The others lingered to pick up match-books and menus as souvenirs of the happy time. They heard suppressed laughter and titters at the tables all about them. Every head in the restaurant was turned to watch Mrs. Feeley’s majestic progress. In her haste to acquire the seat-covers, she had neglected something: the entire back of her skirt and slip was tucked into the elastic waistband of her bloomers. The diners were getting the full benefit of Mrs. Feeley’s bare legs, like tenpins, and a truly impressive breadth of beam clad in tightly stretched pink rayon. Sublimely unaware of the disarray, Mrs. Feeley continued her stately progress right out the front door. Her friends caught up with her and pulled her dress down while Darleen hailed a cab.
‘Hope the sight done ’em good,’ Mrs. Feeley chuckled in the taxi. ‘I ain’t got no thin’ to be ashamed of! Mr. Feeley always said a woman oughta dress as clean an’ neat underneath as if she expected to get knocked down by a truck an’ took off to the hospital every time she left the house! Darleen! The rest o’ the night’s on us! Where do we go from here?’
Darleen suggested a bar where fun and frolic were rife.
‘Kinda postman’s holiday for you, ain’t it?’ Mrs. Rasmussen said as they entered The Seven Seas. Apparently the seas had been a bit rough lately. The once lovely tappas were faded and motheaten, and the murals had been touched up by artistic patrons in their cups. The genuine Hawaiian orchestra consisted of very un-Polynesian musicians: two Mexicans and a Filipino.
The beers were large and cheap and Darleen certainly knew a lot of fellows. They all came over and paid their respects; she introduced them with pride to her new friends. True, she seldom knew the last names of the young men, but she knew a lot of them. Mrs. Feeley decided there was safety in numbers. A foreman from one of the shipyards asked Miss Tinkham to dance. They went out on the floor and began to toddle blissfully, cheek to cheek, their rear ends stuck out at an angle of forty-five degrees.
‘You sure can’t beat Miss Tinkham,’ Darleen said admiringly.
‘Beat her? Hell, you can’t even tie her! She’s got more joy in her than ten ordinary people!’ Mrs. Feeley responded.
The lady under discussion had made a conquest. Her foreman friend asked if he might join them and bought more beer all around—he wanted to know where Miss Tinkham lived and why he had not met her before. It was not every day one met such good company. His name was Oscar.
The lethargic orchestra began to play a dispirited hula and Mrs. Feeley made hula movements with
Mrs. Rasmussen nodded, although she did not know what it all meant. Neither did Darleen, but it sounded impressive. Mrs. Feeley came back and said she was ready to start all over again. She pulled some folded papers from her pocket and showed them to her friends. They were tissue seat-covers. She handed them to Mrs. Rasmussen and said:
‘Just put these in your bag! We may not always have the luck to be in elegant dumps like this!’
‘What will the ladies have for dessert?’ the waiter asked.
‘Bring me some ham an’ eggs,’ Mrs. Rasmussen laughed.
‘Some toasted crackers and Camembert?’ the waiter coaxed.
‘By all means!’ Miss Tinkham said. ‘Camembert! My favorite cheese!’
‘Sure! Bring on the cheese! Go good with the beer!’ Mrs. Feeley commanded, back in her element now that she knew what he was talking about.
The ladies looked curiously at the runny triangles of cheese.
Mrs. Rasmussen was feeling real skittish, for she turned and asked the waiter where her clothespin was, holding her nose suggestively.
Darleen said she had never had such a pleasant time in her whole life. The ladies said they had not either. When the bill and the waiter had been taken care of, they rose to go—Mrs. Feeley charging ahead as usual.
The others lingered to pick up match-books and menus as souvenirs of the happy time. They heard suppressed laughter and titters at the tables all about them. Every head in the restaurant was turned to watch Mrs. Feeley’s majestic progress. In her haste to acquire the seat-covers, she had neglected something: the entire back of her skirt and slip was tucked into the elastic waistband of her bloomers. The diners were getting the full benefit of Mrs. Feeley’s bare legs, like tenpins, and a truly impressive breadth of beam clad in tightly stretched pink rayon. Sublimely unaware of the disarray, Mrs. Feeley continued her stately progress right out the front door. Her friends caught up with her and pulled her dress down while Darleen hailed a cab.
‘Hope the sight done ’em good,’ Mrs. Feeley chuckled in the taxi. ‘I ain’t got no thin’ to be ashamed of! Mr. Feeley always said a woman oughta dress as clean an’ neat underneath as if she expected to get knocked down by a truck an’ took off to the hospital every time she left the house! Darleen! The rest o’ the night’s on us! Where do we go from here?’
Darleen suggested a bar where fun and frolic were rife.
‘Kinda postman’s holiday for you, ain’t it?’ Mrs. Rasmussen said as they entered The Seven Seas. Apparently the seas had been a bit rough lately. The once lovely tappas were faded and motheaten, and the murals had been touched up by artistic patrons in their cups. The genuine Hawaiian orchestra consisted of very un-Polynesian musicians: two Mexicans and a Filipino.
The beers were large and cheap and Darleen certainly knew a lot of fellows. They all came over and paid their respects; she introduced them with pride to her new friends. True, she seldom knew the last names of the young men, but she knew a lot of them. Mrs. Feeley decided there was safety in numbers. A foreman from one of the shipyards asked Miss Tinkham to dance. They went out on the floor and began to toddle blissfully, cheek to cheek, their rear ends stuck out at an angle of forty-five degrees.
‘You sure can’t beat Miss Tinkham,’ Darleen said admiringly.
‘Beat her? Hell, you can’t even tie her! She’s got more joy in her than ten ordinary people!’ Mrs. Feeley responded.
The lady under discussion had made a conquest. Her foreman friend asked if he might join them and bought more beer all around—he wanted to know where Miss Tinkham lived and why he had not met her before. It was not every day one met such good company. His name was Oscar.
The lethargic orchestra began to play a dispirited hula and Mrs. Feeley made hula movements with
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