All this time, Hill sat as quietly as he could. He laughed whenever Launcelot Gobbo appeared; and tried hard to get Hiram to go out and take more lemonade between the acts. Hiram would not move. He offered to introduce him to lots of pretty girls whom he pointed out in the distance; but it was useless. Hill began to think he would not make much of Hiram, after all. The evening was past, and he had as yet accomplished just nothing.
The play was over. The farce had been performed. It did not interest Hiram. He thought everything over-strained and unnatural. It was now late, Hiram had declined various seductive invitations of Hill, when the latter finally insisted they should have some oysters. Hiram assented, and the two descended into Windust's.
'Well, old fellow, what are you doing here?' was Hill's exclamation to a young man with notebook and pencil, seated at one of the small tables, on which already smoked an oyster stew and some brandy toddy.
'Hallo, Hill, is that you? Sit down. What will you have?' was the reply.
Hiram regarded the speaker curiously. He was twenty-two or three years old—serious looking, with black hair, dark eyes, and pale, bony features. He had the easy, indifferent air of one careless of opinion, or independent of it.
'My friend, Mr. Meeker, from Connecticut.'
'Mr. Meeker, Mr. Innis.'
After these salutations, the parties sat down, and orders were given.
'Excuse me,' said Innis; 'I am not quite through my work.'
'Go ahead,' replied Hill; whereat the other proceeded with his pencil and notebook, scratching away in a most rapid manner.