MR. BAILEY THOMPSON GIVES US HIS INGENIOUS ADVICE—WE ARE FOOLS ENOUGH TO TRUST HIM—MISPLACED CONFIDENCE
“The very man!” cried Brentin. “Mr. Bailey Thompson, let me present you to my friends. You are just in time to give them assurance of the feasibility of the great scheme you and I have already had some discussion over.”
Now Bailey Thompson’s name had been cursorily mentioned during dinner as that of a gentleman who might look in in the course of the afternoon, and, if he came, would be able to give us some useful hints; but, beyond that, Brentin had kept him back as a final card, having already some notion of the wavering going on, and desiring to use him to clinch the business one way or the other.
Mr. Thompson bowed and smiled, and Brentin went on.
“There is some dissatisfaction in the camp, sir; there is some doubt and there is fear. Advice is badly needed. I look to you to give it us.”
“I shall be very glad to be of any use.”
“Then let me present you, Mr. Thompson. This powerful young man with the leonine head and cherry-wood pipe is Mr. Hines; next him, with the slight frame, tawny mustache, and Richmond Gem cigarette, is Mr. Parsons; opposite, with the clean, clear, and agreeable countenance and the cigar, is Mr. Forsyth; next him, with the sloping brow and thoughtful back to his head, is Mr. Masters, who doesn’t smoke. Vincent Blacker you know. Gentlemen, Mr. Bailey Thompson. There is your glass, sir; drink, and when you feel sufficiently stimulated and communicative, speak!”
Mr. Thompson darted his penetrating eyes over the company, smiled again, and took his glass of tepid punch.
“So you really mean it,” he said, sitting between us.
Mr. Brentin groaned. “Don’t let us hear that from you again, sir,” he said; “it is likely to breed bad blood. Take it from me, we really mean it, and only need advice how it should best be done. Mr. Bailey Thompson, we are all attention.”