“Our friend Richmond is about as truthful as he is complimentary,” Mortimer replied.

“Yes,” said Richmond, “but if I were no more complimentary than you are truthful, I should have a slam for everybody.”

“Oh, ho, ho, no,” McGlenn cried, and Richmond shouted:  “Oh, I have been robbed.”

Henry looked about for the cause of this commotion and saw a smiling man, portly and impressive, coming toward them with a dignified mince in his walk.  And Mr. Flummers was introduced with half-humorous ceremony.  He had rather a pleasant expression of countenance, and men who were well acquainted with him said that he had, though not so long of arm, an extensive reach for whisky.  He was of impressive size, with a sort of Napoleonic head; and when hot on the trail of a drink, his voice held a most unctuous solicitude.  He was exceedingly annoying to some people and was a source of constant delight to others.  At one time he had formed the habit of being robbed, and later on he was drugged; but no one could conjecture what he would next add to his repertory.  His troubles were amusing, his difficulties were humorous, his failures were laughable, and his sorrows were the cause for jest.  He had a growing paunch, and when he stood he leaned back slightly as though his rotund front found ease in exhibition.  As a law student he had aimed a severe blow at justice, and failing as an attorney, he had served his country a good turn.  As a reporter he wrote with a torch, and wrote well.  All his utterances were declamatory; and he had a set of scallopy gestures that were far beyond the successful mimicry of his fellows.  The less he thought the more wisely he talked.  Meditation hampered him, and like a rabbit, he was generally at his best when he first “jumped up.”

He shook hands with Henry, looked at him a moment and asked:  “Are you going to run a newspaper with all those old geysers you’ve got over there?”

The new member winced.

“Don’t pay any attention to Flummers,” John Richmond said.

“Oh, yes,” Flummers insisted.  “You see, I know all those fellows.  Some of them were worn out ten years ago—­but say, are you paying anything over there?”

“Yes, paying as much as any paper in the town.”

“That’s the stuff; but say, you can afford it.  Who rang the bell?  Did anybody ring?  Boy,” (speaking to a waiter), “we ought to have something to drink here.”

“Do you want to pay for it?” Richmond asked.

“Oh, ho, ho, no, I’m busted.  I’ve set ’em up two or three times to-day.”

“Why, you stuffed buffalo robe, you”—­

“Oh, well, it was the other day, then.  I’m all the time buying the drinks.  If it weren’t for me you geysers would dry up.  Say, John, touch the bell.”

“Wait,” said Henry.  “Have something with me.”

“Ah, now you command the respect of the commonwealth!” Flummers cried.  “By one heroic act you prove that your life is not a failure.  These fellows round here make me tired.  Boy, bring me a little whisky.  What are you fellows going to take?  What! you want a cigar?” he added, speaking to Henry.