"And they still believe that old prehistoric myth," Ernestine
proclaimed from safety, "that once he, that wretched semblance of a
man-thing prone in the dirt, captained Berkeley to victory over
Stanford."

Her breasts heaved from the exertion, and he marked the pulsating of
the shimmering cherry-colored silk with delight as he flung his glance
around to the other two girls similarly breathing.

The piano was a miniature grand--a dainty thing of rich white and gold
to match the morning room. It stood out from the wall, so that there
was possibility for Lute to escape around either way of it. Forrest
gained his feet and faced her across the broad, flat top of the
instrument. As he threatened to vault it, Lute cried out in horror:

"But your spurs, Dick! Your spurs!"

"Give me time to take them off," he offered.

As he stooped to unbuckle them, Lute darted to escape, but was herded
back to the shelter of the piano.

"All right," he growled. "On your head be it. If the piano's scratched
I'll tell Paula."

"I've got witnesses," she panted, indicating with her blue joyous eyes
the young things in the doorways.

"Very well, my dear." Forrest drew back his body and spread his
resting palms. "I'm coming over to you."