When the four financiers got together in Mitchell's room Steve proposed to continue his lessons in the fascinating game of bridge.
He drank freely and his game was the apotheosis of bumble-puppy.
Archibald, his partner, was much irritated by his stupidity.
A bellboy came to the door. A gentleman in the parlor would like to see Mr. Thompson.
Mr. Thompson looked at the card. "Mr. A.W. Wyatt," he announced sneeringly. "You can tell Mr. A.W. Wyatt, if he wants to see me, he can just naturally mosey himself up here."
"Not the A.W. Wyatt—Anson Walworth Wyatt?" asked Loring. "I know him—I mean, I know him by sight."
"I believe it is," said Steve with surly indifference. "If you know him, you know an overbearing jabberwock. He's head devil of the push that bought the Copperbottom and I don't like his style even a little bit. He seems to think I'm the dirt under his feet. I'll show him. I know what he wants, and that's the other fourth of my mine." He thumped the table viciously. "He'll pay for all he gets from me, I'll tell you that."
Mr. Wyatt was ushered in; irreproachable, flawless, exquisite. ("It's him!" breathed Loring.) He remained standing, hat in hand, fitted his glass with vacuous care and surveyed the room with deliberately insolent scrutiny. Thompson kept his seat, fairly prickling with antagonism. The others rose with exemplary good breeding.
"Aw!" said the newcomer, after an eloquent pause.
"Mistah—er—Townsend, cawn I have a few moments of quite pwivate convehsation with you?"
"No, you cawnt!" retorted Thompson truculently. "Sit down, boys. Sit down, I say! These gentlemen are my friends. Anything you got to say? If there is, say it. And my name's Thompson, if you please."