“Oh, clearly, of course,” answered Abel, still thickly, and in a tone by no means agreeable to his companions. “What should you consider to be his fair share?”
“Well,” began Condor, “I should think, in ordinary times, a thousand a year; and then, as particular occasion demands.”
At this distinct little speech the whole company lifted their glasses that they might more conveniently watch Abel.
With a half-maudlin grin he looked along the line.
“By-the-by, Condor, how much do you give a year?” asked he.
There was a moment’s silence.
“Hit, by G——!” energetically said one of the silent men.
“Good for Newt!” cried General Belch, thumping the table.
There was another little burst of laughter, with the least possible merriment in it. William Condor joined with an entirely unruffled face.
“As for Belch,” continued Abel, with what would be called in animals an ugly expression—“Belch is the clown, and they left him off easy. The Party is like the old kings, it keeps a good many fools to make it laugh.”