Outside the door he met the flapper on one of her daily visits of inspection.
"I perfectly well knew you'd never die," exclaimed the flapper, and laid glad hands upon him.
"Where do they eat?" asked Bean.
"How jolly! We'll eat together," rejoined the flapper. "The funniest thing! They all kept up till half an hour ago. Then it got rougher and rougher and now they're all three laid out. Poor Moms says it's the smell of the rubber matting, and Granny says she had too many of those perfectly whiffy old cigarettes, and Pops says he's plain seasick. Serves 'em rippingly well right—taggers!"
She convoyed him to the dining-room, where'he was welcomed by a waiter who had sorrowfully thought not to come to his notice. He greedily scanned the menu card, while the waiter, of his own initiative, placed some trifles of German delicatessen before them.
"It is a lot rougher," said the flapper. "Isn't it too close for you in here?" She was fixedly regarding on a plate before her a limp, pickled fish with one glazed eye staring aloft.
"Never felt better in my life," declared Bean. "Don't care how this little old steamer teeters now. Got my sea-legs."
"Me, too," said the flapper, but with a curious diminution of spirit. She still hung on the hypnotic eye of the pickled fish.
"Ham and cabbage!" said Bean proudly to the waiter.
