“Why, here, of course. Is it possible that this is the first time you have seen him? Why, he has been coming here every evening for a week at least. Ah, I remember, you have not put in an appearance for about that time. We boys have nicknamed him ‘the Grenadier.’ He always takes a seat at that table where he is now, and, after sitting about an hour, and drinking two or three glasses of beer, goes off. We are curious to know who the deuse he can be.”
“Does he always come alone?”
“Invariably. Never speaks to a soul, save Hans, of course. What! do you know him?”
The Don’s eyes and mine had met, and we had bowed; he with the smile courteous, I with the smile expansive and bland, born of many beers.
“No; I can’t say that I do. I have met him on the street merely. But I am rather interested in him,—why, I will tell you hereafter. I say, boys,” I continued, “let’s have him over here.”
“Good!”
I approached the Don with my sweetest smile, and, saluting him, said something about our being a jolly party over at our table, and wouldn’t he join us?
“Thanks; with pleasure,” said he, rising; and the “boys,” seeing him approach, made room for him with much hospitable bustle.
“Mr. Smith,” said he, in a low voice, as we crossed the room.
“Mr. Whacker,” replied I; and, seizing his hand, I shook it with unctuous cordiality.