Smugg was not in the room, and the rest of
us congratulated Joe, and made up a purse for him to give Pyrrha,
with our best respects, and he bowed himself out, mightily
pleased, and asseverating that we were real gentlemen. Then we
sat and looked at the table.
"It robs us of a resource," pronounced Gayford, once again making
himself the mouthpiece of the party. We all nodded, and filled
fresh pipes.
Presently Smugg sidled in. We had seen little of him the last
week; save when he was construing he had taken refuge in his own
room. When he came in now, Gayford wagged his head
significantly at me; apparently, it was my task to bell the cat.
I rose, and went to the mantelpiece. Smugg had sat down at the
table, and my back was to him. I took a match from the box,
struck it, and applied it to my pipe, and, punctuating my words
with interspersed puffings, I said carelessly:
"By the way, Smugg, Pyrrha's going to be married to Joe Shanks
to-morrow."
I don't know how he looked. I kept my face from him, but, after
a long minute's pause, he answered:
"Thank you, Robertson. It's Aeschylus this morning, isn't it?"
We had a noisy evening that night. I suppose we felt below par,
and wanted cheering up. Anyhow, we made an expedition to the
grocer's, and amazed him with a demand for his best champagne and
his choicest sherry. We carried the goods home in a bag, and sat
down to a revel.
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