“Go on, Poke!” Herman Boyd encouraged.
“Sure! Give the boy orator his head!” grinned Sam.
“You’ve got ’em going, Poke—don’t let up!” “Hit us again—we haven’t got any friends!” “My, but isn’t he the silver-tongued spell-binder!” There was a medley of shouts; Poke shook his fist in mock defiance.
“I haven’t much more to say, and I’ll make short work of it. You fellows are all right, though you might know a lot more than you do. Oh, I’m the same way—I admit it. But I know enough to stop when I’m through. So that’s why I’m going to say again that I’m glad you’re here, and sit down.”
There was lusty clapping of hands. Then Varley rose, his glass in his hand.
“I propose,” he said, “the very good health of Poke Green. Long may he wave!”
They drank the toast in sparkling spring water, and drank it with enthusiasm. Then there were other toasts to Varley, to Sam, to the rest of the party; all to the general satisfaction and the especial delight of Poke. He was beaming more broadly than ever when they filed out of the dining-room and into the big lobby. There was just a bit of a swagger in his walk, as he strolled up to the desk, and pulled out his pocketbook.
The clerk, catching the spirit of the occasion, made a little ceremony of making out the account and presenting Poke with the receipt. Also he expressed the hope that the dinner had been to the satisfaction of the guests.
“It was a corker!” quoth Poke, and thrust his change into a pocket. Then, perhaps suspecting that he had displayed unsophisticated warmth, he turned hastily. The tall vase of prismatic glass, which had held his admiration on his first visit to the hotel, caught his eye.
“Say, isn’t that a peach of a shiner!” he exclaimed to Step, who happened to be nearest him.