almost invariably agreeable. To-night he was particularly so, since his report to the company had been favourably commented upon, his new samples had been satisfactorily selected, and his trip marked out for the next six weeks.
"Why, hello, Charlie, old man," said Hurstwood, as Drouet came in that evening about eight o'clock. "How goes it?" The room was crowded.
Drouet shook hands, beaming good nature, and they strolled towards the bar.
"Oh, all right."
"I haven't seen you in six weeks. When did you get in?"
"Friday," said Drouet. "Had a fine trip."
"Glad of it," said Hurstwood, his black eyes lit with a warmth which half displaced the cold make-believe that usually dwelt in them. "What are you going to take?" he added, as the barkeeper, in snowy jacket and tie, leaned toward them from behind the bar.
"Old Pepper," said Drouet.
"A little of the same for me," put in Hurstwood.
"How long are you in town this time?" inquired Hurstwood.
"Only until Wednesday. I'm going up to St. Paul."
"George Evans was in here Saturday and said he saw you in Milwaukee last week."
"Yes, I saw George," returned Drouet. "Great old boy, isn't he? We had quite a time there together."
The barkeeper was setting out the glasses and bottle before them, and they now poured out the draught as they talked, Drouet filling his to within a third of full, as was considered proper, and Hurstwood taking the barest suggestion of whiskey and modifying it with seltzer.
"What's become of Caryoe?" remarked Hurstwood. "I haven't seen him around here in two weeks."
