"Yes, ring the bell."
"That's the stuff."
"Flummers," some one remarked, a few moments later, "I don't think that I ever saw you drunk."
Flummers tapped his forehead and replied: "The brain predominates the jag. But I must gather up the flapping ends of my discourse. I will begin again."
"Are you going to repeat that dose of bloody rot?" Mortimer asked.
"Jim, I pity you. I pity any man that can't see a point when it's held under his nose."
"Or smell one when it's held under his eye," someone suggested.
"You fellows are pretty gay," said Flummers. "You must have drawn your princely stipends this week." He hesitated a moment, pressed his hand to his forehead, cut a fish-hook in the air and resumed his recital:
"When I reached Omaha it was snowing. The heavens wore a feathery frown."
"He didn't fill," said Whittlesy.