"My friend, Mr. Vanastorbilt Stover, here's setting up," said Butsey in conciliating accents.
The eyes opened and fastened on Stover, who advanced saying:
"That goes."
"Ring a couple of dimes down, Astorbilt," said Butsey. "Al's very fond of music."
"Give me change for that," said Stover, rising to the occasion with a five-dollar bill.
"And, for the love of Mike, hustle 'em," said Butsey White. "I've only got a second."
The shop began to empty rapidly as the hour of the two o'clock recitation neared. Stover gazed into the pink, fruity depths of his first strawberry jigger, inserted his spoon gingerly and took a nibble. Then he drew a long, contented breath, gazed into the land of dreams, and gave himself up to the delights of a new, of an incomparable sensation.
Butsey White, gobbling against time, flung out occasional, full-mouthed phrases:
"Got to run—'xcuse us—jemima! Isn't it the stuff—see you at three—better bring some back in box—don't tell any one, though—especially the Coffee-colored Angel."
Across the fields the bell suddenly, impatiently, brutally clanged out. With a last convulsive gulp Butsey White finished his glass, and burst from the shop in the helter-skelter company of the last laggards. Stover, left alone, looked inquiringly at Al.