After Toby Laidlaw had made his little speech, Aingeal was approached by two peppery jokers in their mid-fifties — both proud owners of amber mustaches that had been curled into handlebars.
They smelled of old brandy and cigars.
“What ho!” Said the least odious. “You’re a pretty lass. Are you one of those naughty post-card girls?”
“Or are you here as someone’s spunky niece?” Said the other.
“Peachy whatever she is. Nice nip-nips too. Don’t you think?”
Aingeal felt a chubby hand grope around behind. Strange fingers made a play for the seams on her bloomers.
“I am Blanche Saint-Saëns.” She said, presenting herself as assertively as she could. “I am a postcard model at the studio of Monsieur Spyros Argyris.”
“Tight as a nun’s purse.” Said the duffer, ignoring the introduction.
He withdrew his fingers from her behind and smelt across the tips.
“Fresh as a lily too.” The other chuckled loudly.
“Do you like to get your mams out for the solider-boys?”
“Got fidgety knees this one…” Said the other “I bet she screams like a tiger-kitten and writhes like a rattlesnake when she’s on the blanket.”
Aingeal felt another fat palm invade the roundness of her buttock.
Then the hand gave a hearty slap.
“What a girl. She makes a man feel glad to be alive.”
Staff-Sergeant Hawthorn arrived in the nick-of-time.
“I wonder if you two gentlemen do not mind if I cut myself in. But there is someone here that Miss Blanche has to meet. I’m anxious to bring her to him.”
The brutes backed off, outflanked and outfoxed by the girl’s dreary watchdog. The Staff-Sergeant led the girl away with a protective arm around her shoulders.
The old boys watched the girl’s provocative swing as she tip-toed away.
She thought she heard one say, “I would give oodles to spend the night with that.”