“And Professor Ralph Waldo William Butler Swinburne Southwick, of Harvard, and Beacon Street, and the American Ambulance.”
Southwick, in his precipitation to shake hands, dropped his glasses, which slid from his long, delving nose and dangled back and forth on their short string, overturned a pile of chips, and started to take up the discards, under a storm of protests.
“Other members of the original Inter-Allied Poker Club have succumbed to poison gas, auto-intoxication, and the need of a recumbent position,” continued Hungerford, with a wave of his hand toward two figures on the couches, who had passed beyond the stage of introductions. He paused and indicated a large, bulbous figure under a sombrero, snoring peacefully in a sitting position at his side. “The late Mr. Honus Scroff, of Tittle Valley, Arizona. Mr. Scroff is especially delighted to meet you,” he added, lifting the hat from the red, cropped hair and freckled ears.
“Honus hasn’t been to bed since we started down,” said Galligan, gathering in the cards.
“Quite right. Mr. Scroff’s like an eight-day clock; he only has to sleep every Saturday night from 12 to 8.”
“Play ball!” said Frangipani loudly, throwing in an ante.
Scroff woke, blinked, and said thickly, “My deal?”
“Not yet, old top!”
“All right.”