“No. Thank you. I am quite well, at present.”
“That’s hearty. If you and me don’t do any more buggy ridin’ in Cape Cod typhoons, we’ll last a spell yet, hey? What you got there, the death warrant?” referring to the portfolio and its contents.
Mr. Graves evidently did not consider this flippancy worth a reply, for he made none.
“Sit down, gentlemen,” said Sylvester.
The four took chairs at the table. Graves untied and opened the portfolio. Captain Elisha looked at his solemn companions, and his lips twitched.
“You’ll excuse me,” he observed, “but I feel as if I was goin’ to be tried for piracy on the high seas. Has the court any objection to tobacco smoke? I’m puttin’ the emphasis strong on the ‘tobacco,’” he added, “because this is a cigar you give me yourself, Mr. Sylvester, last time I was down here.”
“No, indeed,” replied the senior partner. “Smoke, if you wish. No one here has any objection, unless it may be Graves.”
“Oh, Mr. Graves ain’t. He and I fired up together that night we fust met. Hot smoke tasted grateful after all the cold water we’d had poured onto us in that storm. Graves is all right. He’s a sportin’ character, like myself. Maybe he’ll jine us. Got another cigar in my pocket.”
But the invitation was declined. The “sporting character” might deign to relax amid proper and fitting surroundings, but not in the sacred precincts of his office. So the captain smoked alone.
“Well,” he observed, after a few preliminary puffs, “go on! Don’t keep me in suspenders, as the feller said. Where did the lightnin’ strike, and what’s the damage?”