“Ha, ha, ha,” laughed Smithers again. “Great idea, Burton.”
“If Rothschild did smoke, he might ’a’ owned half o’ England by quittin’ before he began,” declared Artie sophistically.
“Desist, lads, desist,” implored Smithers with mock concern. “If you produce any more such stunning logic, I won’t be able to sleep any more until I’ve sworn off smoking. And I don’t want to do that. It’s the chief care-killer of a bachelor.”
“Are you a bachelor?” inquired Artie, somewhat embarrassed.
“Dear me, yes. Don’t these quarters look like it—eh, Burton?”
“Then you live in London?” Artie continued.
“Certainly—I’m in business here,” looking at Guy as he spoke.
Smithers apparently did his best to make the evening pleasant for the boys, but he seemed to be much more interested in Guy than he was in Artie. In fact Guy told himself that the way in which the man ignored the hotel clerk at times was extremely uncivil. They discussed the holdup of the night before, and the rescuer produced the weapon he had taken from the highwayman. This proved to be an old-fashioned thumb-cock, with a five-chamber cylinder.
“Why didn’t it go off when it dropped on the pavement?” asked Guy.
“It was only half-cocked an’ couldn’t,” replied the host.