“I knew how it would be! Jim, these luncheons will be the ruin of us all some night.”
“Can’t help it,” retorted Baxter, doggedly. “It’s a good four-mile walk from the city and as much back, and we hadn’t anything but a snack for supper. A man’s got to eat, and when I’m hungry——”
“Well, well,” said the other, with a gesture of impatience, “if it must be, it must. Harry, see to the wine, and we will find the substantials. Now, Jim, do be careful of the dishes, and don’t grunt and puff while you’re eating. It’s vulgar.”
Jim Baxter grunted and puffed at this, but made no other reply as he busied himself spreading the contents of the refrigerator on the dining-room table, while Harry from the sideboard produced a decanter of whiskey and three bottles of claret. There was a nice piece of cold ham, some tongue, cheese and pickles, bread and butter, anchovies and sardines, a bottle of olives, and the remains of an oyster pie.
“Quite a lay-out,” remarked Baxter, with a ravenous chuckle. “D’ye remember the house at Barleytown where there wasn’t nothin’ but graham crackers and winegar in the box?”
“I should say so,” exclaimed Graham, with a look of disgust.
“Some people are too mean to live,” returned Baxter, savagely. “Come, shove over that decanter, and let’s pitch in. Fingers, gents, ’cause there ain’t nothin’ but silver knives and forks in this house, unless I take ’em out of the bag, which I ain’t doin’. Here’s luck!”
“Excellent claret, Wilson,” said the young burglar, holding his glass up to the light.
“Genuine Medoc,” returned Graham, with the air of a connoisseur. “That’s the worst of this business; not one gentleman out of ten is a judge of wine. Now, the whiskey——”
“The whiskey’s all right,” interrupted Baxter, curtly. “All whiskey’s 270 good; some’s better’n others, but it’s all good. Blow claret!”