“Well,” began Condor, “I should think, in ordinary times, a thousand a year; and then, as particular occasion demands.”

At this distinct little speech the whole company lifted their glasses that they might more conveniently watch Abel.

With a half-maudlin grin he looked along the line.

“By-the-by, Condor, how much do you give a year?” asked he.

There was a moment’s silence.

“Hit, by G——!” energetically said one of the silent men.

“Good for Newt!” cried General Belch, thumping the table.

There was another little burst of laughter, with the least possible merriment in it.  William Condor joined with an entirely unruffled face.

“As for Belch,” continued Abel, with what would be called in animals an ugly expression—­“Belch is the clown, and they left him off easy.  The Party is like the old kings, it keeps a good many fools to make it laugh.”

His tone was threatening, and nobody laughed.  General Belch looked as if he were restraining himself from knocking his friend down.  But they all saw that their host was mastered by his own liquor.

“Squeeze Lawrence Newt, will you?  Why, Lord, gentlemen, what do you suppose he thinks of you—­I mean, of fellows like you?” asked Abel.

He paused, and glared around him.  William Condor daintily knocked off the ash of his cigar faith the tip of his little finger, and said, calmly,

“I am sure I don’t know.”

“Nor care,” said General Belch.

“He thinks you’re all a set of white-livered sneaks!” shouted Abel, in a voice harsh and hoarse with liquor.

The gentlemen were silent.  The leaders wagged their feet nervously; the others looked rather amused.

“No offense,” resumed Abel.  “I don’t mean he despises you in particular, but all bar-room bobtails.”

His voice thickened rapidly.

“Of all mean, mis-mis-rabble hounds, he thinks you are the dirt-est.”

Still no reply was made.  The honorable gentleman looked at his guests leeringly, but found no responsive glance.

“In vino veritas,” whispered Condor to his neighbor Belch.  William Condor was always clean in linen and calm in manner.

“Don’t be ’larmed, fel-fel-f’-low cit-zens!  Lawrence Newt’s no friend of mine.  I guess his G——­ d——­ pride ’ll get a tumble some day; by G——­ I do!” Abel added, with a fierce hiss.

The guests looked alarmed as they heard the last words.  Abel ceased, and passed the decanter, which they did not decline; for they all felt as if the Honorable Abel Newt would probably throw it at the head of any man who said or did what he did not approve.  There was a low anxious murmur of conversation among them until Abel was evidently very intoxicated, and his head sank upon his breast.

“I’m terribly afraid we’ve burned our fingers,” said Mr. Enos Slugby, looking a little ruefully at the honorable representative.