Larry turned to the painter. His laughing eyes could be sharp; they were penetratingly sharp now. And so were Hunt's eyes.
Larry held out his hand, again the left. “And so you're the painter?”
“They call me a painter,” responded Hunt, “but none of them believe I'm a painter.”
Larry turned again to Maggie. “And so you're actually Maggie! Meaning no offense”—and there was a smiling audacity in his face that it would have been hard to have taken offense at—“I don't see how Old Jimmie Carlisle's daughter got such looks without stealing them.”
“Well, then,” retorted Maggie, “I don't see how you got your looks unless—”
She broke off and bit her tongue. She had been about to retort with the contrast between Larry's face and his shriveled, hook-nosed grandmother's. They all perceived her intention, however.
Larry came instantly to her rescue with almost imperceptible ease.
“Dinner!” he exclaimed, gazing at the miscellany of dishes on the table. “Am I invited?”
“Invited?” said Hunt. “You're the guest of honor.”
“Then might the guest of honor beg the privilege of cleaning up a bit?” Larry drew his right hand from his coat pocket, where it had been all this while, and started to unwind the handkerchief which he had wound about his knuckles as he had crossed from the pier.
“Is your hand hurt much?” Maggie inquired eagerly.
“Just skinned my knuckles.”
“How?”
“They happened to connect with a flatfoot's jaw while he was trying to make hypnotic passes at me. He's coming to about now. Officer Gavegan.”
“Gavegan!” exclaimed Hunt. “You picked a tough bird. Young man, you're off to a grand start—a charge of assault on an officer the very day they turn you out of jail.”
Larry smiled. “Gavegan is a dirty one, but he'll make no charge of assault. He claims to be heavy-weight champion
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