J. Harry had thus acquired a manner which was in perfect accord with his looks, and gradually this had become so fixed a habit that he rarely put it aside, except in moments of great excitement or tension, when his true self came to the surface. At other times he was the bland, jolly, good-tempered and careless individual which his appearance implied. A good deal of a sport, to be sure, but full of bright, witty stories, which he narrated in a droll way that was irresistible, and altogether a most desirable fellow to take a hand at poker or make a fourth at bridge.
His small, bright eyes lit up and a wide smile wreathed his fat countenance as he saw Clarence Carr advancing toward his position at the end of the bar.
“Well, well,” he chuckled, holding out a plump, pink hand. “My old college chum! How are you, Clarence, old boy? What’ll you take?”
Carr grinned as he clasped the bejeweled fingers.
“Glad to see you, old sport,” he returned. “Make it a rye high ball.”
“Scotch for me,” nodded the stout cherub to the waiting attendant. “And say—bring them over to a table. I want to rest my bones.”
“Didn’t know they needed resting, Harry,” smiled Carr, as they crossed the room to a little table in the corner. “They’re so bolstered up and supported with blubber, you know.”
With a sigh, Edgerton relapsed carefully into a creaking chair.
“Same old joker, I see,” he chortled. “Wait till you tip the scales at three hundred odd and you’ll feel the need of resting something. Whether it’s bones or not, I can’t say.”
The drinks being set before them, each man poured out a generous three fingers and filled the glasses with carbonated.