"Go right up and sit on the steps of the bloomin' old thing and eat a bag of cream-puffs."
Stover exploded with laughter.
"What the deuce would be the sense in that, you old anarchist?"
"To prove to my own satisfaction that I'm a man."
"Do you mean it?" said Stover, half laughing.
McCarthy scratched his head with one of the old boyish, comical gestures Stover knew so well.
"Well, perhaps I mean more than I think," he said, grinning. "In another month I may get it as bad as that little uselessness Schley. By the way, he wants us over at his eating-joint."
"He does?"
"He's a horsefly sort of a cuss. You'll see, he'll fasten on to you just as soon as he thinks it worth while. Here we are."
They pressed their way, saluted with the imperious rattle of knives and plates, through three or four rooms, blue-gray with smoke, and found a vacant table in a far corner. A certain reserve was still prevalent in the noisy throng, which had not yet been welded together. Immediately a thin, wiry fellow, neatly dressed, hair plastered, affable and brimming over with energy, rose and pumped McCarthy's hand, slapping him effusively on the back.