“No—no,” came in chorus from the men.
“Come on, Porter—Fitzhugh—Wilson,” I said; and then added sharply, “sit down, the rest of you! We don't need a regiment to ask a man to dinner.”
The others sank back into their seats, and the three I had named followed me meekly down the hall and stairs.
I had never had the pleasure of meeting Mr. Meeker face to face, but I doubted not that I should be able to pick him out. I was right. I knew him the moment I saw him. He was tall and broad of shoulder, long of arm, shifty of eye, and his square jaw was covered with a stubby red beard. His color heightened as we walked into the office and cut off the two doors of retreat.
“An unexpected pleasure,” I said, giving him good day.
His hand slipped to the side pocket of his sack coat, and then back again, and he made a remark in an undertone that I fear was not intended for a pleasant greeting.
“There's a little dinner of a few friends going on up stairs,” I said politely. “Won't you join us?”
Meeker scowled a moment with evident surprise.
“No, I won't,” he growled.
“But it is a sad case for a man to dine alone,” I said smoothly. “You will be very welcome.”