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Show 27, Jeffries, Islamorada [Section 2] They had walked to where a gray cloud of smoke came rolling out the back vents of a lavatory. "You know Clayton I worry about the girls. It occurs to me a great deal was lost when we so abruptly abandoned the concept of 'young ladies.' Dresses and such, to be worn to their lessons. Self-respect. See that group over there. In their dirty jeans. Mean as a pack of dingoes." "Hello sir." In their fools' dress, the little harlequins moved aside. "Now Clayton you'll be needing a trip home to get your clothes and your car. I'll have your classes covered; take Thursday and Friday and the weekend--if you're having the gasoline problem, trouble getting down here by Monday morning, give me a call." "Well thank you, boss." They were in front of the girls' John. The smoke poured out from every chink and keyhole. A nasty-looking young woman, the watchdog, tapped her warning on the door, and began to perspire. The principal brushed her aside. "Close your eyes, girls," he growled, "I'm comin' in." Dusting off that bus ticket for a long night's trip into Georgia. Does Macon have an airport. Enough is enough. Time for the small extravagance of the planes. United-Delta-United. Little direct anymore, sir. We can't get gas either. Atlanta. |
