Decline in Prophets by Sulari Gentill

honey when he wanted to. The babes seemed to like him and he had old Annie snowed.”
    “I think Annie may have worked him out,” Rowland said, as he recalled their conversation the previous evening.
    “Baloney!” Van Hook returned. “His manners may have made her burn up occasionally, but she thought he was the cat’s pyjamas! Spoke up for him every time.” He looked
at Rowland. “Heard you boffed him in the kisser for messing with Edna… Don’t blame you… she’s a doll.”
    There was a pause, partly because it took Rowland a second to work out exactly what Van Hook was saying, and partly because, once he had, he wasn’t sure how to respond.
    “Yes…”
    “Attaboy! Don’t feel bad about it. He had it coming.” Hubert Van Hook tossed down his hand. “You fellas going to sit around beating your gums, or are we playing
here?”
    “We’re playing,” Rowland replied, glancing at his hand.
    It took the Australians about an hour to bring the game to a profitable conclusion.
    “Well fellas, it’s been a real gasser,” Van Hook said, standing up. “But I’m going to scram. You boys have cleaned me out—haven’t got jack.”
    Rowland and Milton watched him go.
    “Seems wrong to take his money,” Milton said quietly. “Poor chap can’t even speak English.”
    Rowland nodded. “We have a week’s stopover in New York. We could be in trouble if they all talk like that.”
    “Is a gasser a good or bad thing, do you think?”
    “It’s hard to tell… could be either.”
    Edna and Clyde came into view. The sculptress was dressed in a becoming floral, with a chaste Peter Pan collar. Her hat was stylish, but conservatively so, as were the kid gloves she wore.
    “Well?” Milton asked as they sat down.
    Rowland turned to Clyde. “Did Ed manage to pass as—”
    “She took communion.”
    Milton laughed. “Don’t you have to be admitted to some kind of holy order for that?”
    “It is traditional to be confirmed in the Catholic Church before one partakes of the Eucharist,” Clyde said tightly.
    Edna pulled off her gloves. “Stop fussing, Clyde,” she said, patting his arm. “It’s not all that different from our communions… except there was no wine. Did you
know they didn’t share the wine, Rowly? I daresay Bishop Hanrahan likes to keep it all for himself.”
    Rowland tried not to laugh for Clyde’s sake. Milton had no such inhibitions. He called over a waiter and ordered drinks for them all in an attempt to compensate the deprivation.
    “So how was the service?” Rowland asked once the drinks arrived.
    “Hanrahan’s certainly heavy on the brimstone,” Clyde replied shaking his head. “Scared the hell out of me.”
    Milton raised his glass. “Don’t worry mate, we’ll put it back.”
    “Did you see Isobel?”
    “Yes—pretty girl. Cried a lot and spent the rest of the time glaring at Hanrahan. Ed spoke to her.”
    “Only for a little while. Poor thing seemed in need of a friend.” Edna added reflectively. “She’s taking tea with me at four o’clock.”
    “Well, if she’s pretty, we might all join you,” Milton suggested.
    “Oh yes, do,” Edna invited. “She might even find you amusing.”
    “How about we try our hands at deck tennis in the meantime?” Milton suggested stretching. “Provided Rowly’s delicate constitution can cope with the outside
air.”
    Rowland looked sharply at the poet, recalling the young lady who’d lost her ball.
    Milton smiled innocently.
    Rowland sighed. “All right, why not.”
    They made their way onto the appropriate deck and found a purser, who equipped them with racquets and erected a net. The deck court was so small that Rowland found he could play a reasonable
game standing still and relying on his reach. The mild exercise of the game mitigated the cold a little. Milton on the other hand, carried on as if he was centre court at Wimbledon, turning
regularly to acknowledge an audience of young ladies who’d abandoned their own