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If you don’t turn loose my arm, I’ll—I’ll scream ‘Hey rube’—” “What a dire threat!” the New Yorker laughed with genuine amusement.

“One shouts, ‘Hey, rube!’” she told him.

When at last the tent was raised, Sally walked out, Van’s arm still about her shivering, soaked body, to find apparently the entire carnival force huddled in the rain to welcome her, drawn by that fateful cry of “Hey, rube!”

And his stentorian “Hey, rube!” struggled up through layers of dripping canvas, bringing speedy relief for the submerged “rube” and performer.

I swear I’ll scream ‘Hey, rube!’ if you don’t—” “And I had planned such a delicious supper,” the New Yorker mourned mockingly as he slowly released her arm, as if reluctant to forego the pleasure that rounded slimness and smoothness gave his highly educated fingers.