The speaker's eyes were fierce, though watery, and his face was red as the sun through smoke. He drained his glass, and glared at O'Rourke.
"Couldn't say. Never was here before," replied O'Rourke. He counted his neighbour's throw aloud, for the benefit of the table.
"Three aces, a six, and a five."
He was about to recover two of the dice from a shallow puddle on the table, and replace them in the box, when he felt a hand on his arm.
"I was American consul," hissed the major, "and, by hell, I'm still sober enough to count my own dice, and pick 'em up, too."
O'Rourke smiled, unruffled. "You don't mean you are sober enough, major—you mean you are not quite too drunk," he said. The others paused in their talk, and laughed. The major opened his eyes a trifle wider and dropped his under jaw. He looked the young stranger up and down.
"Well, I hope you are ashamed of yourself," he said, at last.
"I am sorry I was rude, sir," explained O'Rourke, "but I hate to be grabbed by the arm that way. I must have a nerve there that connects with my temper."
A tipsy smile spread over the ex-consul's face.
"Shake hands, my boy," he cried. They shook hands. The others craned their necks to see.