Having given orders that the gentleman he expected should be shown in on his arrival, Grog solaced himself at the fire with a morning paper, in all the ease of slippers and an arm-chair. Almost the first thing that struck his eye was a paragraph informing the world that the marriage of a distinguished individual—whose approaching elevation to the peerage had been already announced—with one of the most beautiful daughters of the aristocracy would take place early in the ensuing week. And then, like a codicil to a will, followed a brilliant description of the gold dressing-case ordered by Mr. Davenport Dunn, at Storr's, for his bride. He was yet occupied with the paragraph when Mr. Hankes entered the room.
“I am afraid I have made a mistake,” said that bland gentleman. “I thought this was Captain Fisk's apartment.”
“You're all right,” said Grog, leisurely surveying the visitor, whose “get up” was really splendid. Amethyst studs glittered on his shirt; his ample chest seemed a shrine in its display of amulets and charmed offerings, while a massive chain crossed and recrossed him so frequently that he appeared to be held together by its coils. Fur and velvet, too, abounded in his costume; and even to the immense “gland” that depended from his cane, there was an amount of costliness that bespoke affluence.
“I regret, sir,” began Hankes, pompously, “that I have not the honor—”
“Yes, yes; you have the honor,” broke in Grog. “You've had it this many a year. Sit down here. I don't wear exactly so well as you, but you 'll remember me presently. I 'm Kit Davis, man. You don't require me to say who you are.”
“Davis,—Grog Davis,” muttered Hankes to himself, while an ashy paleness spread over his face.
“You don't look overjoyed to meet with an old friend,” said Grog, with a peculiar grin; “but you ought, man. There's no friendships like early ones. The fellows who knew us in our first scrapes are always more lenient to our last wickednesses.”
“Captain Davis,—Captain Davis!” stammered out Hankes, “this is indeed an unexpected pleasure!”
“So much so that you can hardly get accustomed to it,” said Grog, with another grin. “Fisk received a hasty message that called him away to the country this morning, and left me to fill his place; and I, as you may guess, was little loath to have a cosey chat with an old friend that I have not seen—how many years is it?”
“It must be nigh ten, or even twelve!”