"You won the cup too, didn't you?" demanded Waddles. "Winner always buys—buys for everybody. Boy, bring the rest of those tags back here and let Mr. Peacock sign them too. Winner always buys, Henry. That's a club rule."
Mr. Peacock sat down at the table, put on his glasses and audited those tags to the last nickel. After he had signed them all he picked up the Hemmingway Cup and examined it from top to bottom.
"Can you beat that?" whispered Waddles in my ear. "The old piker is trying to figure, with silver as low as it is, whether he's ahead or behind on the deal!"
"Well, boys," said Sam Totten, standing on his chair and waving his arms, "here's to the Old Guard! We won a cup at last! Old Henry won it; but it's all in the family, ain't it, Henry? Betcher life it is! The Old Guard—drink her up, and drink her down!"
Frank Woodson dropped his big ham of a hand on Henry Peacock's shoulder.
"I couldn't have been half so tickled if I'd won it myself!" said he. "You see, you never won a cup before. I won one once—runner-up in the fifth flight over at San Gabriel. Nice cup, silver and all that, but you've got to have a magnifying glass to see it. Now this Hemmingway Cup, Henry, is a regular old he cup. You can't put it where your visitors won't find it. You can be proud of it, old son, and we're proud of you."
"Same here," said Peter Miller, and his face twisted into something remotely resembling a smile. "Did my heart good to see the old boy laying those tee shots out in the middle every time. We're all proud of you, Henry."
"Proud!" exclaimed Sam Totten. "I'm so proud I'm all out of shape!"
Peacock didn't have much to say. He sat there smiling his tight little smile and looking at the silver cup. I believe that even then the idea of desertion had entered into his little two-by-four soul. There was a thoughtful look in his eyes, and he didn't respond to Totten's hilarity with any great degree of enthusiasm.
"What was it the admiral said at Santiago?" asked Sam. "'There's glory enough for us all!' Wasn't that it?"