Moved by the same impulse, the two old men struggled to their feet and embraced each other, swayed by an emotion so honest that all sense of the ludicrous was removed. Even Jones, though he grinned, allowed a note of gentleness to creep into his voice.
“Come along, gentlemen, like good fellows. Let's go to bed. I'm sure the message to Mr Frederic is not as bad as you——”
Mr Riggs, who was head and shoulders taller than Mr Dawes, made a gesture of despair with both arms, forgetting that they encircled his friend's neck, with the result that both of his bony elbows came in violent contact with Mr Dawes's ears, almost upsetting him.
“Don't argue, Jones,” he interrupted dismally. “I know it's bad news. So does Mr Dawes. Don't you, Danbury?”
“What d' you mean by—hic—knockin' my hat off?” demanded Mr Dawes furiously, shaking his fist at Mr Riggs from rather close quarters—so close, in fact, that Mr Riggs suddenly clapped his hands to his stomach and emitted a surprised groan.
Jones inserted his figure between them.
“Come, come, gentlemen; don't forget yourselves. What now, Mr Riggs?”
“I'm lookin' for the gentleman's hat, sir,” said Mr Riggs impressively from a stooping posture.
“His hat is on the rack in the hall,” said Jones sharply.
“Then I shan't ex-expect an—hic—'pology,” said Mr Dawes magnanimously.