Captain Lamb, of Pennsylvania, cocked one eye at his glass, and then opening his mouth, and throwing his head a little back, tipped the entire contents down at one swallow. He filled the glass again, took a puff at his cigar, scratched his head a moment with the handle of a spoon, then opening his pocket-knife, proceeded to excavate some recesses in his teeth with the blade.
“Is Dinks a rising man in Massachusetts, do you know, Sir?” asked Captain Lamb of Abel, while the knife waited and rested a moment on the outside of the mouth.
“I believe he is, Sir,” said Abel, at a venture.
“Wasn’t there some talk of his going on a foreign mission? Seems to me I heard something.”
“Oh! yes,” replied Abel. “I’ve heard a good deal about it. But I am not sure that he has received his commission yet.”
Captain Lamb cocked his eye at Abel as if he had been a glass of wine.
Abel rose, and, seating himself by Sligo Moultrie, entered into conversation.
But his object in moving was not talk. It was to give the cue to the company of changing their places, so that he might sit where he would. He drifted and tacked about the table for some time, and finally sailed into the port toward which he had been steering—an empty chair by Mr. Dinks. They said, good-evening. Mr. Dinks added, with a patronizing air,
“I presume you are not often at dinners of this kind, Mr. Newt?”
“No,” replied Abel; “I usually dine on veal and spring chickens.”