"Mr. Kelly," said McNab rising seriously, "what does this little gem of intellectuality, this as it were psycho-therapeutical cirrhosis of a paleontological state,—you get my meaning, of course,—that is, from the point of view of modern introspective excavations, with due regard to whatever the sixth dimension, considered as such, may have of influence, and allowing that a certain amount of error is inherent in Spanish cooking if eggs are boiled in a chafing-dish—admitting all this, I ask you a simple question. Do you understand me?"
"Perfectly," said Kelly, who had followed this serious harangue with strained attention. "And, moreover, I agree with you."
"You agree?" said McNab, feigning surprise.
"I do."
"Sir, you are a congenial soul. Shake hands."
But, in the act of stealing this sudden friendship, Kelly brought forth his hand, when it was perceived that he was tightly clutching a pool-ball, and, moreover, that his pockets were bulging like a sort of universal mumps with a dozen inexplicable companions. A shout went up:
"Why, he's swallowed a frame of pool-balls!"
"He certainly has."
"He's swiped them."
"He's wrecked a pool-room."