Monteagle followed his friend into the wine shop, nothing loth; for though he assumed an indifferent air, he could not feel altogether uninterested in an affair of this kind. Besides, like all young men on such occasions, his curiosity was powerfully excited.
Blodget sat down in one corner and beckoned to the host to set on a bottle of champagne. He then pressed Monteagle to drink who, at first, refused, but being in haste to hear the news, he finally tossed off a glass in order to hurry on the recital which Blodget had in store for him.
‘It is a strange story,’ said Blodget, smacking his lips—‘good wine—’
‘But this queer business—the love story—some Mexican squaw, I suppose, has—’
‘No—no. You are a lucky dog, Monteagle.’
‘Very likely.’
Here Blodget poured out another glass and nodded to his companion—‘Take another, and then to business.’
Monteagle drank to save time, and said; ‘Go on with this wonderful story.’
‘Well,’ said the other, ‘I think your chance is good. The firm hold you in high estimation—’
‘Fudge! no more of that—’