“Oh, I had a great man on my staff yesterday—­big railroad man.  Do you know that some of those fellows like to have a man show them how to spend their money?  I see I’m posted for dues.  This municipality must think I’m made of money.”

When he caught sight of the boy coming with the tray, a peculiar light, such as painters give the face of Hope, illumined his countenance, and clasping his hands, he unctuously greeted himself.

“Mr. Flummers,” said McGlenn, “we all love you.”

“Oh, no.”

“Yes; it is disreputable, but we love you.  It was a long time before I discovered your beauties.  I used to think that the men who loved you were the enemies of a higher grade of life, and perhaps they were, but I love you.  You are a great man, Mr. Flummers.  Nature designed you to be the president of a life insurance company.”

“Well, say, I know that.”

“Yes,” continued McGlenn.  “A life insurance company ought to employ you as a great joss, and charge people for the privilege of a mere glimpse of you.”

“I shouldn’t think,” said Richmond, “that a man who had committed murder in Nebraska would be so extreme as to pose as the president of a life insurance company.”

“Mr. Hammers, did you commit a murder in Nebraska?” McGlenn asked.

“Oh, no.”

“But didn’t you confess that you killed a man there?” Richmond urged.

“Oh, well, that was a mistake.”

“What?  The confession?”

“No, the killing.  You see, I was out of work, and I struck a doctor for a job in his drug-store; and once, when the doctor was away, an old fellow sent over to have a prescription filled, and I filled it.  And when the doctor returned he saw the funeral procession going past the store.  He asked me what it meant, and I told him.”

“Then what did he say?”

“He asked me if I got pay for the prescription.  Oh, but he was a thrifty man!” Flummers clasped his hands, threw himself back and laughed with a jolting “he, he, he.”  “Well, I’ve got to go.  Did anybody ring?  Say, John”—­to Richmond—­“why don’t you buy something?”

“What?  Oh, you gulp, you succession of swallows, you human sink-hole!  Flummers, I have bought you whisky enough to overflow the Mississippi.”

“Oh, ho, ho, but not to-day, John.  Past whisky is a scandal; in present whisky there lies a virtue.  Never tell a man what you have done, John, lest he may think you boastful, but show him what you will do now, so that he may have the proof of your ability.  Is it possible that I’ve got to shake you fellows?  My time is too valuable to waste even with a mere contemplation of your riotous living.”

He walked away with his mincing step.  “There’s a character,” said Henry, looking after him.  “He is positively restful.”

“Until he wants a drink,” Mortimer replied, “and then he is restless.  Well, I must follow his example of withdrawal, if not his precept of appetite.  I am pleased to have met you, Mr. Witherspoon, and I hope to see you often.”