"How are you, Nat? How are you, Bill?"
He ensconced himself in the generous arm-chair, which bore the trace of many masters, accepted a cigar and said, to put his hosts at their ease:
"Bully quarters you've got here. Blame sight more room than I've got."
Pike, cap on, a pad under his arm, apologized for going.
"Awful sorry, Stover; darned inhospitable. This infernal News grind. Hope y'will be sociable and stay till I get back."
"How are you making out?" said Stover, in an encouraging, generous way.
Pike scratched his ear, a large, loose ear, wrinkling up his long, pointed nose in a grimace, as he answered:
"Danged if I don't think I'm going to miss out again."
"You were in the first competition?" said Stover, surprised—for one trial was usually considered equivalent to a thousand years off the purgatory account.
"Yep, but I was green—didn't know the rules."