Mr. Brimberly, comfortably ensconced in Young R.’s favourite armchair, nodded ponderously and beat time to the twang of Mr. Jenkins’s banjo, whereto Mr. Stevens sang in a high-pitched and rather shaky tenor the latest musical success yclept “Sammy.”  Thus, Mr. Jenkins strummed, Mr. Stevens trilled, and Mr. Brimberly alternately beat the tempo with a plump white finger and sipped his master’s champagne until, having emptied his glass, he turned to the bottle on the table beside him, found that empty also, crossed to the two bottles on the mantel, found them likewise void and had tried the two upon the piano with no better success, when, the song being ended, Mr. Jenkins struck in with: 

“All dead men, Brim!  Six of ’em between us—­not bad going, what?”

“And very good fizz too, on the whole!” added Mr. Stevens.  “I always sing better on champagne.  But come, Brim my boy, I’ve obliged with everything I know, and Jenk, ’e ’s played everything ’e knows, and I must say with great delicacy an’ feelin’—­now it’s your turn—­somethin’.”

“Well,” answered Mr. Brimberly, squinting at an empty bottle, “I used to know a very good song once, called ’Let’s drownd all our sorrers and cares.’  But good ’eavens! we can’t drownd ’em in empty bottles, can we?”

“Oh, very good!” chuckled Mr. Jenkins, “oh, very prime!  If I might suggest, there’s nothin’ like port—­port’s excellent tipple for drowndin’ sorrer and downing care—­what?”

“Port, sir?” repeated Mr. Brimberly, “we ’ave enough port in our cellars to drownd every sorrer an’ care in Noo York City.  I’m proud of our port, sir, and I’m reckoned a bit of a connysoor—­”

“Ah, it takes a eddicated palate to appreciate good port!” nodded Mr. Jenkins loftily, “a eddicated palate—­what?”

“Cert’nly!” added Mr. Stevens, “an’ here’s two palates waitin’, waitin’ an’ ready to appreciate till daylight doth appear.”

“There’s nothin’ like port!” sighed Mr. Brimberly, setting aside the empty champagne bottle, “nothin’ like port, and there’s Young Har ’ardly can tell it from sherry—­oh, the Goth! the Vandyle!  All this good stuff would be layin’ idle if it wasn’t for me!  Young Har ain’t got no right to be a millionaire; ’is money’s wasted on ’im—­he neglects ’is opportoonities shameful—­eh, shameful!  What I say is—­what’s the use of bein’ a millionaire if you don’t air your millions?”

Hereupon Mr. Jenkins rocked himself to and fro over his banjo in a polite ecstasy of mirth.

“Oh, by Jove!” he gasped, “if that ain’t infernal clever, I’ll be shot!  Oh, doocid clever I call it—­what!”

“Er—­by the way, Brim,” said Mr. Stevens, his glance roving toward the open window, “where does he happen to be to-night?”