THE JAZZ AGE COLLECTION - The Great Gatsby & Other Tales. Фрэнсис Скотт Фицджеральд

and beaming whenever she caught her bye. Beside her were two middle-aged sycophants, who were saying what a perfectly exquisite child Millicent was. It was at this moment that Mrs. Tate was grasped firmly by the skirt and her youngest daughter, Emily, aged eleven, hurled herself with an “Oof!” into her mother’s arms.

      “Why, Emily, what’s the trouble?”

      “Mamma,” said Emily, wild-eyed but voluble, “there’s something out on the stairs.”

      “What?”

      “There’s a thing out on the stairs, mamma. I think it’s a big dog, mamma, but it doesn’t look like a dog.”

      “What do you mean, Emily?”

      The sycophants waved their heads sympathetically.

      “Mamma, it looks like a — like a camel.”

      Mrs. Tate laughed.

      “You saw a mean old shadow, dear, that’s all.”

      “No, I didn’t. No, it was some kind of thing, mamma — big. I was going downstairs to see if there were any more people, and this dog or something, he was coming upstairs. Kinda funny, mamma, like he was lame. And then he saw me and gave a sort of growl, and then he slipped at the top of the landing, and I ran.”

      Mrs. Tate’s laugh faded.

      “The child must have seen something,” she said.

      The sycophants agreed that the child must have seen something — and suddenly all three women took an instinctive step away from the door as the sounds of muffled steps were audible just outside.

      And then three startled gasps rang out as a dark brown form rounded the corner, and they saw what was apparently a huge beast looking down at them hungrily.

      “Oof!” cried Mrs. Tate.

      “O-o-oh!” cried the ladies in a chorus.

      The camel suddenly humped his back, and the gasps turned to shrieks.

      “Oh — look!”

      “What is it?”

      The dancing stopped, bat the dancers hurrying over got quite a different impression of the invader; in fact, the young people immediately suspected that it was a stunt, a hired entertainer come to amuse the party. The boys in long trousers looked at it rather disdainfully, and sauntered over with their hands in their pockets, feeling that their intelligence was being insulted. But the girls uttered little shouts of glee.

      “It’s a camel!”

      “Well, if he isn’t the funniest!”

      The camel stood there uncertainly, swaying slightly from side to aide, and seeming to take in the room in a careful, appraising glance; then as if he had come to an abrupt decision, he turned and ambled swiftly out the door.

      Mr. Howard Tate had just come out of the library on the lower floor, and was standing chatting with a young man in the hall. Suddenly they heard the noise of shouting upstairs, and almost immediately a succession of bumping sounds, followed by the precipitous appearance at the foot of the stairway of a large brown beast that seemed to be going somewhere in a great hurry.

      “Now what the devil!” said Mr. Tate, starting.

      The beast picked itself up not without dignity and, affecting an air of extreme nonchalance, as if he had just remembered an important engagement, started at a mixed gait toward the front door. In fact, his front legs began casually to run.

      “See here now,” said Mr. Tate sternly. “Here! Grab it, Butterfield!. Grab it!”

      The young man enveloped the rear of the camel in a pair of compelling arms, and, realizing that further locomotion was impossible, the front end submitted to capture and stood resignedly in a state of some agitation. By this time a flood of young people was pouring downstairs, and Mr. Tate, suspecting everything from an ingenious burglar to an escaped lunatic, gave crisp directions to the young man:

      “Hold him! Lead him in here; we’ll soon see.”

      The camel consented to be led into the library, and Mr. Tate, after locking the door, took a revolver from a table drawer and instructed the young man to take the thing’s head off. Then he gasped and returned the revolver to its hiding-place.

      “Well, Perry Parkhurst!” he exclaimed in amazement.

      “Got the wrong party, Mr. Tate,” said Perry sheepishly. “Hope I didn’t scare you.”

      “Well — you gave us a thrill, Perry.” Realization dawned on him..

      “You’re bound for the Townsends’ circus ball.”

      “That’s the general idea.”

      “Let me introduce Mr. Butterfield, Mr. Parkhurst.” Then turning to. Perry; “Butterfield is staying with us for a few days.”

      “I got a little mixed up,” mumbled Perry. “I’m very sorry.”

      “Perfectly all right; most natural mistake in the world. I’ve got a clown rig and I’m going down there myself after a while.” He turned to Butterfield. “Better change your mind and come down with us.”

      The young man demurred. He was going to bed.

      “Have a drink, Perry?” suggested Mr. Tate.

      “Thanks, I will.”

      “And, say,” continued Tate quickly, “I’d forgotten all about your — friend here.” He indicated the rear part of the camel. “I didn’t mean to seem discourteous. Is it any one I know? Bring him out.”

      “It’s not a friend,” explained Perry hurriedly. “I just rented him.”

      “Does he drink?”

      “Do you?” demanded Perry, twisting himself tortuously round.

      There was a faint sound of assent.

      “Sure he does!” said Mr. Tate heartily. “A really efficient camel ought to be able to drink enough so it’d last him three days.”

      “Tell you,” said Perry anxiously, “he isn’t exactly dressed up enough to come out. If you give me the bottle I can hand it back to him and he can take his inside.”

      From under the cloth was audible the enthusiastic smacking sound inspired by this suggestion. When a butler had appeared with bottles, glasses, and siphon one of the bottles was handed back; thereafter the silent partner could be heard imbibing long potations at frequent intervals.

      Thus passed a benign hour. At ten o’clock Mr. Tate decided that they’d better be starting. He donned his clown’s costume; Perry replaced the camel’s head, arid side by side they traversed on foot the single block between the Tate house and the Tallyho Club.

      The circus ball was in full swing. A great tent fly had been put up inside the ballroom and round the walls had been built rows of booths representing the various attractions of a circus side show, but these were now vacated and over the floor swarmed a shouting, laughing medley of youth and color — downs, bearded ladies, acrobats, bareback riders, ringmasters, tattooed men, and charioteers. The Townsends had determined to assure their party of success, so a great quantity of liquor had been surreptitiously brought over from their house and was now flowing freely. A green ribbon ran along the wall completely round the ballroom, with pointing arrows alongside and signs which instructed the uninitiated to “Follow the green line!” The green line led down to the bar, where waited pure punch and wicked punch and plain dark-green bottles.

      On the wall above the bar was another arrow, red and very wavy, and under it the slogan: “Now follow this!”

      But even amid the luxury of costume and high spirits represented, there, the entrance of the camel created something of a stir, and Perry was immediately surrounded by