When the door closed upon him, Grief said: "The coffee's done; I hate that fellow. That overcoat cost thirty dollars, if it cost a red. His egotism is so tranquil. It isn't like yours, Wrinkles. He—"
The door opened again and Corinson thrust in his head. "Say, you fellows, you know it's Thanksgiving to-morrow?"
"Well, what of it?" demanded Grief.
Little Pennoyer said: "Yes, I know it is, Corrie, I thought of it this morning."
"Well, come out and have a table d'hote with me to-morrow night. I'll blow you off in good style."
While Wrinkles played an exuberant air on his guitar, little Pennoyer did part of a ballet. They cried ecstatically: "Will we? Well, I guess yes?"
When they were alone again, Grief said: "I'm not going, anyhow. I hate that fellow."
"Oh, fiddle," said Wrinkles. "You're an infernal crank. And besides, where's your dinner coming from to-morrow night if you don't go? Tell me that."
Little Pennoyer said: "Yes, that's so, Grief. Where's your dinner coming from if you don't go?"
Grief said: "Well, I hate him, anyhow."