“Joe,” broke in the other.
“Exactly. Joe told me that I might chance upon you here.”
“Well, I 'm glad to see you, old fellow, and have a chat about long ago,” said Fisk, as he placed a square green bottle and some glasses on the table. How well you 're looking, too; not an hour older than when I saw you four years ago!”
“Ain't I, though!” muttered Grog. “Ay, and like the racers, I 've got weight for age, besides. I'm a stone and a half heavier than I ought to be, and there's nothing worse than that to a fellow that wants to work with his head and sleep with one eye open.”
“You can't complain much on that score, Kit; you never made so grand a stroke in your life as that last one,—the marriage, I mean.”
“It was n't bad,” said Davis, as he mixed his liquor; “nor was it, exactly, the kind of hazard that every man could make. Beecher was a troublesome one,—a rare troublesome one; nobody could ever say when he 'd run straight.”
“I always thought him rotten,” said the other, angrily.
“Well, he is and he isn't,” said Grog, deliberately.
“He has got no pluck,” said Fisk, indignantly.
“He has quite enough.”