The trombone started an upward flourish. They followed it, running forward. She began the draggy step to the left--and then let herself go. How it was done, she could not tell, but somehow he took her weight in the middle of the step, and they completed a little dipping whirl as graceful as the lilt of a seagull against a flurry of wind. A gasp of applause broke out around them. The dancers veered further off to allow room for these beautiful new maneuvers. And Jacqueline, dizzy with the joy of conquest, saw the set, white face of Dolly Maxwell. It was the golden drop of honey in the wine of victory. The music stopped, but the rhythm still ran in her blood. Carrigan’s rather coldly curious stare sobered her. “What’s the matter?” she asked. “I see a freckle comin’ out to look the landscape over. Sorry you ain’t got that powder-puff with you.” “I have it, all right.” “I didn’t know you had pockets in that dress.” “It’s my corsage.” “Your which?” “Look at that funny trombone-player.” He turned to stare at the shiny bald head, and when he looked back she had just slipped something into the bosom of her dress. All traces of the freckle were gone. She flushed a little under his eye of inquiry. Then very anxiously: “Is it gone?” “It’s behind a cloud, anyway,” said Carrigan. “Here’s Maurie Gordon.” The big cow-puncher came up, earnest-eyed. “If you’re not hooked up for this next waltz--” he began. He stopped with a widening stare. She had glanced carelessly over him from head to foot, and now turned her back on him to take the arm of Carrigan. The movement was slow, deliberate, casual. It left big Maurie Gordon crimson and breathing hard, the butt of open laughter from all. CHAPTER V. THE SILVESTRE SLIDE. Carrigan found Jac trembling with excitement, though her face was still calm. “What the devil,” he began. “I thought Gordon was the man you wanted--” “Don’t you get me?” she broke in eagerly. “None of those swell Eastern ladies would bat an eye at a bum who came up to them without bein’ introduced.” “Oh!” said Carrigan. “And who--” “You will,” she answered without hesitation. “Take me over to a chair and talk with me a minute. Then you can sidestep up to the bar and get a drink. When all the boys flock around and ask about me--” He growled: “How do you know they’ll flock around and ask about you?” There was something akin to pity in her smile. The statue was walking away from Pygmalion. “Take it from me. They will. Your money ain’t any good at that bar--take me to that chair standing away from the rest of them--because every man will be wantin’ to make your acquaintance an’ buy you liquor. Drink beer, Carrie. I hate a breath. Then they’ll ask about me, an’ you tell ’em that I’m straight from the East, an’ don’t understand Western ways. Tell ’em they’ll have to be introduced. An’ don’t bring over any one I don’t point out.” “Beginnin’ with Gordon?” “Sure. Bring him first.” “Who’s next? Are you goin’ to corral ’em all?”