"I have been spending a week end in the country," King remarked, with biting sarcasm. "Found I was getting a bit stale in my golf, don't you know—" there was a momentary pause while he regained the use of his treacherous tongue, then he went on—"I caught myself foozling a few putts, and I concluded I needed to work back up to form."
There was a laugh at this, for scarcely one in the gilded grill but knew where King had been, and whither he was going. But the laugh was instantly hushed at the look that flashed from his eyes toward those who had indulged in the mirth.
King had a nasty temper that grew worse with his indulgence in drink, and it was clear that he had been indulging and intended to continue.
"I said I was—golfing," he went on, exceedingly distinctly, though with an effort. "And now, Cat," and he nodded patronizingly to the white-aproned and respectful bartender, "will you be kind enough to see what my friends will be pleased to order that they may pour out a libation to—let us say Polonius!"
"Why Polonius?" some one asked.
"Because, dear friend," replied King softly, "he somewhat resembles a certain person here, who talks too much, but who is not so wise as he thinks. And now—" he raised his glass—"to all the gods that on Olympus dwell!"
And they drank with him.
Nodding and smiling at his friends, who thronged about him, standing under the gay lights which reflected from costly oil paintings, Harry King plunged his hand into his pocket to pay the bill, a check for which the bartender had thrust toward him.
"Gad, but he's got a wad!" somebody whispered, as King pulled forth a great roll of bills, together with a number of gold and silver coins.
There was a rattle of coins on the mahogany bar as King sought to disentangle a single bill from the wadded-up currency in his pocket.