"Are you a New Yorker?" I mildly asked him. I had been wondering if, under the circumstances, even a voluminous paddock-coat would be reckoned as adequate payment for a repast so princely. The man had already proved to me that his pockets were empty.
"No, I'm not," he retorted. "I'm from God's country."
That doubtlessly irreproachable yet vaguely denominated territory left me so much in doubt that I had to ask for the second time the place of his origin.
"I come from Virginia," he answered, "and if I'd stayed there I wouldn't be where I am to-night."
As this was an axiom which seemed to transcend criticism I merely turned back to him and asked: "And where are you to-night?"
He lifted his glass and emptied it. Then he leaned forward across the table, staring me in the eyes as he spoke. "Do you know the town of Hanover, down in Virginia?"
I had to confess that I did not. As he sat looking at me, with a shadow of disappointment on his lean face, I again asked him to particularize his present whereabouts.
"I'm on the last inch of the last rope-end," was his answer.
"It seems to have its ameliorating condition," I remarked, glancing about the table.
He emitted a sharp cackle of a laugh.