Tremaine shifted restlessly. Between Walter's chuckle and Shirley's squawk, it was not going to be an easy week. Almost equally irritating, Walter had become a belly flaunter in the years since Tremaine had last seen him. The way some men thrust out their chests, he joyfully displayed the blimp-like protuberance at his front. He wore his suspenders wide and his pants low, the better to accommodate it. If he wasn't patting it, he was rubbing it. If he wasn't rubbing it, he was tapping it with a rolled-up magazine, or a pen, or even a ring of keys.

"No,” Walter continued, setting his hands on that great belly and dosing his eyes, “the fact of the matter is that I flew out there with the others in the morning, fully intent on executing the commands of our glorious leader.” He opened his eyes. A jocular wiggle of tufted brows was directed toward Tremaine, but Tremaine, keen observer that he was, noted the accompanying tic just above Walter's padded jaw line. He smiled back coolly.

"However,” said Walter, “the Fates intervened.” He chuckled meaninglessly. “Or perhaps the Furies. A medical crisis developed shortly after we deplaned, and I was unable to continue.” He paused for a rumble of throaty, empty laughter. “Down for the count, so to speak. So I had to remain behind at the shore, where the plane would pick us up later."

"Yes, that's the part I'm not too clear on,” Shirley persisted with a smile that revealed rather too much wet, pink gum line. “The medical crisis.” She eyed him coyly, her long, purplish nose honed. “Or isn't it any of my business? I mean, I'm just curious, so tell me to shut up if…well… ha-HAH!"

"No, no, my dear lady-my dear Shirley, if I may-that's all right. As a matter of fact it was…” He leaned forward and paused theatrically, then finished in a stage whisper: “…a mosquito bite!"

The words appeared to penetrate Gerald Pratt's lethargy. "A mosquito bite, did he say?” The murmured question floated out of a haze of turgid brown smoke. “Is that right?"