There were no blossoms now out of his reach. Our little squirrel had gained the top! To dazzle the wife and daughter with the priceless value of his social position and then compel plain, honest, good-natured Samuel Lambert to pay his bills, and to pay those bills, too, in such a way, “by Heavens, sir, as not to wound a gentleman’s pride”: that, indeed, was an accomplishment. Had any other bushy tail of his acquaintance ever climbed so high or accomplished so much?
A movement on my right cut short my revery.
MacWhirter had lifted his big arms above his head, and was now twisting his broad back as if for a better fulcrum.
“Lonny—” he cried, bringing his body once more to a sitting posture.
“Yes, Mac.”
“In that humiliating and servile interview which you had a short time ago with your other genuflector, the landlord of the White Hart Inn, did you in any way gain the impression that every ounce of grub in his shebang was reserved for the special use of his highness, Count Kerosene, or the Earl of Asphalt, or the Duke of Sausage, or whatever the brute calls himself?—or do you think he can be induced to—”
“Yes, I think so.”
“Think what, you obtuse duffer?”
“That he can be induced.”
“Well, then, grab that easel and let us go to luncheon.”