"Now I sit up with the goats," rejoined the once rustic Palmer, producing a pipe and calmly proceeding to equip it. "But I ought to be in bed. I'm played out. I was so tired at dinner to-night I went to sleep over the salad course."
"Oh, Lord," broke in Forrester; "hear him prattling about night dinners—and he never had anything but bread and molasses for supper on the farm. And hear him giving us that guff about the salad course, as if he was the son of a duke. If you'd lived in Glasgow, my boy, they'd have brought you to time pretty quick. A man's got to be a gentleman over there, I tell you, before he has evening dinners and all that sort of thing—did you drink out of the finger-bowls, Palmer?"
"You needn't talk, Scottie," growled Oliver. "You write your letters at the Arlington—and you get your dinner for fifteen cents at Webb's, at the counter, with your hat on."
"You're a liar," retorted Scottie, meaning no offense whatever. "I've got as good blood inside of me as any man in this city; my mother was born in Auchterarder Castle and——"
"I wouldn't be found dead in a root-house with a name like that," interrupted the agricultural Palmer. "Anyhow, I guess she was the cook—and what's more, nobody here cares what you've got inside of you. But there's poor Simmons—he's our guest—and he looks as if he hadn't put anything inside of him for a dog's age. Where's the restorative, Scottie? It's always you that had it last."
Scottie arose and walked solemnly to a little cupboard in the wall. "I'll inform you, Mr. Simmons," he began gravely, his back still turned to the company, "that we're here for a double purpose. First, we were having a little intellectual conference on—on the rise and fall of the Russian empire, as a great authority put it. You see, we're a kind of a Samuel Johnson coterie—and this is a kind of a Cheshire Cheese. I was there once when I was in London."
"He went to London with cattle," informed Oliver, striking a match—"he was a swine herd in Scotland."
"And I'm Samuel Johnson," pursued Forrester, unruffled; "and Palmer, he's Boswell. And we have a great time discussing things."
"Who's Oliver?" Harvey enquired with faint interest.
"Oh, yes, I forgot him; Oliver's the cuspidor—you ought to be right in the middle of the room, Oliver," he continued amiably, turning round with a large black bottle in his hand. "And the other purpose we're here for, Mr. Simmons, is to celebrate Palmer's birthday. We don't know exactly how old he is—he's lied about his age so long that he's not sure himself. But this is his birthday, anyhow; and they sent him up a little present from the farm. It's a superior brand of raspberry vinegar, made by an aged aunt that's worth twenty thousand and won't die."