“And this is old Stein's celebrated book? I 've heard of it these five-and-thirty years, though I never saw it till now. Well, I won't say you made a bad bargain—”
“Indeed, Grog,—indeed, by George! I 'm as glad as if I won five hundred to hear you say so. To tell you the truth, I was half afraid to own myself the purchaser. I said to myself, 'Davis will chaff me so about this book, he 'll call me all the blockheads in Europe—'”
“No, no, Beecher, you ain't a blockhead, nor will I suffer any one to call you such. There are things—there are people, too, Just as there are games—that you don't know, but before long you 'll be the match of any fellow going. I can put you up to them, and I will. There's my hand on it.”
Beecher grasped the proffered hand, and squeezed it with a warmth there was no denying. What wonderful change had come over Grog he could not guess. Whence this marvellous alteration in his manner towards him? No longer scoffing at his mistaken notions of people, or disparaging his abilities, Davis condescended now to talk and take counsel with him as an equal.
“That 's the king of wines,” said Davis, as he pushed a fresh bottle across the table. “When you can get Marcobrunner like that, where's the Burgundy ever equalled it? Fill up your glass, and drink a bumper to our next venture, whatever it be!”
“'Our next venture, whatever it be!'” echoed Beecher, as he laid the empty glass on the table.
“Another toast,” said Davis, replenishing the glasses. “'May all of our successes be in company.'”
“I drink it with all my heart, old fellow. You 've always stood like a man to me, and I 'll never desert you,” cried Beecher, whose head was never proof against the united force of wine and excitement.
“There never were two fellows on this earth so made to run in double harness,” said Davis, “as you and myself. Let us only lay our heads together, and there's nothing can resist us.”
Grog now launched forth into one of those descriptions which he could throw off with a master's hand, sketching life as a great hunting-ground, and themselves as the hunters. What zest and vigor could he impart to such a picture!—how artfully, too, could he make Beecher the foreground figure, he himself only shadowed forth as an accessory! Listening with eagerness to all he said, Beecher continued to drink deeply; the starry night, the perfumed air, the rippling sounds of the river, all combining with the wine and the converse to make up a dreamland of fascination. Nor was the enchantment less perfect that the objects described passed before him like a series of dissolving views. They represented, all of them, a life of pleasure and enjoyment,—means inexhaustible, means for every extravagance, and, what he relished fully as much, the undisputed recognition by the world to the claim of being a “sharp fellow,”—a character to which Grog's aid was so dexterously contributed as to escape all detection.