Free The Curious Case of Benjamin Button and Other Jazz Age Stories by F. Scott Fitzgerald Page A

face lost its childish look for a moment and became oddly grave.
    â€œI love to be with you,” she said, “more than with any man I’ve ever met. And I like your looks and your dark old hair, and the way you go over the side of the rail when we come ashore. In fact, Curtis Carlyle, I like all the things you do when you’re perfectly natural. I think you’ve got nerve, and you know how I feel about that. Sometimes when you’re around I’ve been tempted to kiss you suddenly and tell you that you were just an idealistic boy with a lot of caste nonsense in his head. Perhaps if I were just a little bit older and a little more bored I’d go with you. As it is, I think I’ll go back and marry—that other man.”
    Over across the silver lake the figures of the negroes writhed and squirmed in the moonlight, like acrobats who, having been too long inactive, must go through their tricks from sheer surplus energy. In single file they marched, weaving in concentric circles, now with their heads thrown back, now bent over their instruments like piping fauns. And from trombone and saxophone ceaselessly whined a blended melody, sometimes riotous and jubilant, sometimes haunting and plaintive as a death-dance from the Congo’s heart.
    â€œLet’s dance!” cried Ardita. “I can’t sit still with that perfect jazz going on.”
    Taking her hand he led her out into a broad stretch of hard sandy soil that the moon flooded with great splendor. They floated out like drifting moths under the rich hazy light, and as the fantastic symphony wept and exulted and wavered and despaired Ardita’s last sense of reality dropped away, and she abandoned her imagination to the dreamy summer scents of tropical flowers and the infinite starry spaces overhead, feeling that if she opened her eyes it would be to find herself dancing with a ghost in a land created by her own fancy.
    â€œThis is what I should call an exclusive private dance,” he whispered.
    â€œI feel quite mad—but delightfully mad!”
    â€œWe’re enchanted. The shades of unnumbered generations of cannibals are watching us from high up on the side of the cliff there.”
    â€œAnd I’ll bet the cannibal women are saying that we dance too close, and that it was immodest of me to come without my nose-ring.”
    They both laughed softly—and then their laughter died as over across the lake they heard the trombones stop in the middle of a bar, and the saxophones give a startled moan and fade out.
    â€œWhat’s the matter?” called Carlyle.
    After a moment’s silence they made out the dark figure of a man rounding the silver lake at a run. As he came closer they saw it was Babe in a state of unusual excitement. He drew up before them and gasped out his news in a breath.
    â€œShip stan’in’ off sho’ ’bout half a mile, suh. Mose, he uz on watch, he say look’s if she’s done ancho’d.”
    â€œA ship—what kind of a ship?” demanded Carlyle anxiously.
    Dismay was in his voice, and Ardita’s heart gave a sudden wrench as she saw his whole face suddenly droop.
    â€œHe say he don’t know, suh.”
    â€œAre they landing a boat?”
    â€œNo, suh.”
    â€œWe’ll go up,” said Carlyle.
    They ascended the hill in silence, Ardita’s hand still resting in Carlyle’s as it had when they finished dancing. She felt it clinch nervously from time to time as though he were unaware of the contact, but though he hurt her she made no attempt to remove it. It seemed an hour’s climb before they reached the top and crept cautiously across the silhouetted plateau to the edge of the cliff. After one short look Carlyle involuntarily gave a little cry. It was a revenue boat with six-inch guns mounted fore and aft.
    â€œThey know!” he said with a short intake of breath. “They know! They picked up the trail