Olinski laughed loudly.
"What are you laughing at?" Henry demanded, in a surly voice.
"That American expression, cock-eyed, it is so—so funny, and—and so beautifully illustrative of the way you look—to me, now."
"Do you mean to insinuate that I have drunk so much already I look—cock-eyed?" Henry retorted.
"There is that possibility, my dear friend," Olinski rejoined, rocking with mirth. "There—there is more than the possibility. You really do look—cock-eyed."
"No matter if I'm cock-eyed, or squint-eyed," said Henry, "my business is to ascertain the contents of this telegram—seeing you are too drunk yourself to tell me beforehand."
"Its contents, we can only conjecture," said Olinski. "My only hope is that it does not contain bad news. I am really distressed, for I have an intuition that it does contain bad news. Perhaps—er—another drink would alleviate my distress."
"You've had quite enough," said Henry. "My only anxiety is that we shall not be able to sleep off our cups before the sun, and sister Jane, have risen." As he finished speaking, he ripped the telegram open.
"That would be a great calamity," muttered Olinski, whose remark coincided with a smothered exclamation of rage from Henry. "Who is it from? What's happened?" Olinski inquired.
"It's from that damn reporter, McGinity," Henry roared. "For the third time tonight, he asks for an interview, and a confirmation of our discovery."