His tone was threatening, and nobody laughed. General Belch looked as if he were restraining himself from knocking his friend down. But they all saw that their host was mastered by his own liquor.
“Squeeze Lawrence Newt, will you? Why, Lord, gentlemen, what do you suppose he thinks of you—I mean, of fellows like you?” asked Abel.
He paused, and glared around him. William Condor daintily knocked off the ash of his cigar faith the tip of his little finger, and said, calmly,
“I am sure I don’t know.”
“Nor care,” said General Belch.
“He thinks you’re all a set of white-livered sneaks!” shouted Abel, in a voice harsh and hoarse with liquor.
The gentlemen were silent. The leaders wagged their feet nervously; the others looked rather amused.
“No offense,” resumed Abel. “I don’t mean he despises you in particular, but all bar-room bobtails.”
His voice thickened rapidly.
“Of all mean, mis-mis-rabble hounds, he thinks you are the dirt-est.”