Howbeit, the unconscious objects of this satire sat that evening in the listless apathy begotten of idleness and lack of excitement.
Even the sudden splashing of hoofs before the door did not arouse them.
Dick Bullen alone paused in the act of scraping out his pipe, and lifted his head; but no other one of the group indicated any interest in, or recognition of, the man who entered.
It was a figure familiar enough to the company, and known in Simpson’s Bar as “The Old Man.”
A man of perhaps fifty years, grizzled and scant of hair, but still fresh and youthful of complexion. A face full of ready, but not very powerful sympathy, with a chameleon-like aptitude for taking on the shade and colour of contiguous moods and feelings.
He had evidently just left some hilarious companions, and did not at first notice the gravity of the group, but clapped the shoulder of the nearest man jocularly, and threw himself into a vacant chair.
“Jest heard the best thing out, boys! Ye know Smiley, over yar—Jim Smiley—funniest man in the Bar? Well, Jim was jest telling the richest yarn about——”
“Smiley’s a —— fool,” interrupted a gloomy voice.
“A particular —— skunk,” added another, in sepulchral accents.
A silence followed these positive statements.