"To Maurice Exton, the best of luck and health!"
Thus chimed the third toast; and after it the jocular order:
"Pour it out, Major! Don't be stingy with the bottle!"
Maurice Exton — the one called "Major" — was a medium-sized man in his late thirties. His hair was black, his features sallow. A neat mustache that matched his hair adorned his upper lip.
A Van Dyke tipped his chin. His shoulders were erect, and had a military bearing. He filled the glasses with steady hands. Then came the toast to the fourth of the group:
"To Joel Hawkins, the best of luck and health!"
After the passing of this last toast, there was momentary silence.
Then Deacon turned to Joel Hawkins and said:
"Don't forget the glasses, Ferret. There's another one coming up."
"That's right," replied "Ferret," with a wry grin. "Did you think I forgot?" Joel Hawkins leaned forward with a shrewd, gleaming grin. Short, stoop-shouldered, so as to almost appear deformed, the name of Ferret was apt. The man's eyes peered sharply through partly closed lids.