"That's right," Johnny declared. "My father was always a Henry Clay man, and I suppose that's why I like those cigars."
After the cigars were lighted White looked his companion square in the face. "Are you sure," he asked, "that we can do nothing for you?"
"Dead sure," was the answer.
"Nothing?"
"You have given me a good dinner," said Johnny. "That's enough. That's more than most of my old friends would give me. And there's nothing more to be done."
White held his peace for the moment.
Johnny took a long sip of his coffee, and drew three or four times at his cigar. "That's a first-rate cigar," he said. "I haven't smoked a Henry Clay for nearly two years, and then I picked up one a man had lighted, between the acts, outside of Daly's."
He puffed at it again with voluptuous appreciation, and then leaned across the table to White and remarked, confidentially, "Do you know, Bob, 'most everything I've cared for in this world has been immoral, or expensive, or indigestible."
"Yes," White admitted; "I suppose that's the cause of your bad luck."
"I've had lots of luck in my life," was the response, "good and bad—better than I deserved, most of it—this dinner, for example; I should remember it even without to-morrow's dyspepsia. But what's the use of anticipating evil? I'll let the next day take care of itself, and make the best of this one. There are several hours of it left—where shall we go now?"