True to his word, Hotstuff was back almost instantly, trailing after him a cast of characters the likes of which is rarely seen on the streets before sundown. The men, five of them in all, were heavy-browed and flashily dressed. Their female counterparts--or molls, as Hotstuff had described them--were so unanimous in their endorsement of low necklines, high heels, dyed hair and ankle bracelets that they seemed almost to be in uniform.
At the approach of this strange swarming, Marc lowered his glasses only to replace them even a bit more quickly than was entirely necessary.
"Good Lord!" he groaned. "It looks like Saturday night at the police lineup."
At that moment, however, Hotstuff arrived at the front of the bus, his questionable companions crowding close behind him.
"These is some of my best chums," he announced with beaming pride. "I would introduce you to them only they don't like their names mentioned." He drew forward a crimson-lipped creature who had crossed the street close to his side.
Floss, whose hair ran the gamut of colors from jet at the roots to orange-red at the ends--with blond, brown and platinum intervening--gazed at Marc from beneath mascara-encrusted eyelashes.
"Hi, tallstuff," she said in a smoky tone, "ain't I seen you somewheres before?"
"Knock it off, Floss," Hotstuff said. "Today's vacation. Besides, the gent can't see you through those glasses, so don't waste your wattage." He grinned at Marc. "She likes you, man."
"I always like to improve public relations," Floss said delicately.
"I'm much obliged," Marc said, edging away. "Well, I suppose we ought to be on our way."
"Okay, everybody!" Hotstuff yelled. "Climb aboard! We're off to mingle with nature!" He took Marc's arm and guided him to the steps. "Everybody brought a couple of bottles," he said. "All you have to do is supply the grub. Boy! is this going to be some party!"
"Yes," Marc said fatefully, "it probably is."
It was not until the bus left the city and was churning its way into the fresh-budding atmosphere of the country that the little assemblage began to get into the true spirit of the trip.
Until then they had been content to sit quietly drinking from their bottles, but now, with the green fields and trees unfolding before them they were moved to song. Lifting their voices in shattering discord, they howled out a little number about an unfortunate heroine called Underslung Fannie whose amorous exploits, according to the lyrics, were distressingly uncanny. At the rear of the bus, Marc slunk in his seat and turned to Toffee.