According to universal custom, the intended imbibers fell into line along the counter, each calling out the name of the drink most to his liking at the moment.
Of these were ordered almost as many kinds as there were individuals in the party; Calhoun himself shouting out—“Brown sherry for me;” and immediately adding—“with a dash of bitters.”
“Prandy und pitters, you calls for, Mishter Calhoun?” said the landlord, as he leant obsequiously across the counter towards the reputed partner of an extensive estate.
“Certainly, you stupid Dutchman! I said brown sherry, didn’t I?”
“All rights, mein herr; all rights! Prandy und pitters—prandy und pitters,” repeated the German Boniface, as he hastened to place the decanter before his ill-mannered guest.
With the large accession of the major’s party, to several others already in the act of imbibing, the whole front of the long counter became occupied—with scarce an inch to spare.
Apparently by accident—though it may have been design on the part of Calhoun—he was the outermost man on the extreme right of those who had responded to his invitation.
This brought him in juxtaposition with Maurice Gerald, who alone—as regarded boon companionship—was quietly drinking his whisky and water, and smoking a cigar he had just lighted.
The two were back to back—neither having taken any notice of the other.
“A toast!” cried Calhoun, taking his glass from the counter.