In the Press Club Henry found Mr. Flummers haranguing a party of men who sat about the round table.  He stood that he might have room in which to scallop his gestures, and he had reached a climax just as Henry joined the circle.  He waited until all interruptions had ceased and then continued:  “Milwaukee was asleep, and I was sent up there to arouse it.  But I shook it too hard; I hadn’t correctly measured my own strength.  The old-timers said, ‘Let us doze,’ but I commanded, ’Wake up here now, and get a move on you,’ and they had to wake up.  But they formulated a conspiracy against me, and I was removed.”

“How were you removed, Mr. Flummers?” McGlenn asked.

“Oh, a petition, signed by a thousand sleepy citizens, was sent down here to my managing editor, and I was requested to come away.  Thus was my Milwaukee career ended, but it ended in a blaze that dazzled the eyes of the old-timers.”  He cut a scallop.  “But papa was not long idle.  The solid South wanted him.  They knew that papa was the man to quiet a disturbance or compel a drowsy municipality to get up and rub its eyes.  Well, I went to Memphis.  What was the cause of the great excitement that followed?” He tapped his forehead.  “Papa’s nut.  But again had he underestimated himself; again was he too strong for the occasion.  He tossed up the community in his little blanket, and while it was still in the air, papa skipped, and the railroad train didn’t go any too fast for him.”

“And was that the time you went over into Arkansas and murdered a man?” Richmond asked.

“Oh, no; you are mixing ancient history with recent events.  But say, John, you haven’t bought anything to-day.”

“Why, you paunch-bulging liar, I bought you a drink not more than ten minutes ago.”

“But you owed me that one.”

“Get out, you nerveless beef!  Under the old law for debt I could put you in prison for life.”

“Oh, no.”

“Do you really need a drink, Mr. Flummers?” McGlenn asked.

“Yes.”

“And you don’t think that there is any mistake about it?”

“No.”

“Well, then, as one who has been compelled to love you, I will buy you a drink.”

“Good stuff.  Say, Whit, touch the bell over there, will you?”

“Touch it yourself, you lout!”

With a profane avowal that he had never struck so lazy a party, Flummers rang the bell, and when the boy appeared, he called with hearty hospitality:  “See what the gentlemen will have.”

“Would you like something more?” Henry asked of Flummers, when the drinks had been served.

“Oh, I’ve just had one.  But wait a minute.  Say, boy, bring me a cigar.”

When the cigar was brought, Flummers said, “That’s the stuff!” and a moment later he broke out with, “Say, Witherspoon, why don’t you kill the geyser that does the county building for your paper?”

“Why so?”

“Oh, he flashes his star and calls himself a journalist.  What time is it?  I must hustle; can’t stay here and throw away time on you fellows.  Say, John”—­