“Why, Finnock, where the devil did you spring from?” said Monte, a tall, languid fellow, with dark red hair, roached up in curling puffs on each side of the central division; somewhat lighter whiskers flowing in long wisps from each ear to the corner of his mouth, while his short chin, shaved clean, imparted an angry bull dog expression that required all the languor of his weak eyes and single eye-glass to soften. “I thought you were going across the pond?”
“No, not yet,” said Finnock, carelessly, “the old man swears that stocks are too low to think of Europe. I told him I didn’t care, I would either take three M’s for Europe next winter or two for the Springs and Newport.”
“Say, Finn.,” continued Monte, “have you heard about Sedley?”
“No, anything bad?”
“Rather! got a lift from Lola, took the blues, and went into the jungle.”
“‘D the tiger hurt him?”
“A little—fifteen hundred or so. He left next morning, and I expect has committed suicide.”
“Who the deuce is Lola?” asked Finnock.
“She’s the rage now—prettier than Venus and richer than Plutus himself. Don’t you remember my writing you about her?”
“Ah, yes, I do remember,” said Finnock, “but where is she from, Monte?”