now you’re veal. You put me in mind of a japonica in a window. You’ve been signed, sealed and diskivered. Requiescat in hoc signo. You make me thirsty.”
“A green chartreuse here,” said Merritt to the waiter.
“Whiskey straight,” sighed Greenbrier, “and they’re on you, you renegade of the round-ups.”
“Guilty, with an application for mercy,” said Merritt. “You don’t know how it is, Greenbrier. It’s so comfortable here that—”
“Please loan me your smelling salts,” pleaded Greenbrier. “If I hadn’t seen you once bluff three bluffers from Mazatzal City with an empty gun in Phœnix—”
Greenbrier’s voice died away in pure grief.
“Cigars!” he called harshly to the waiter, to hide his emotion.
“A pack of Turkish cigarettes for mine,” said Merritt.
“They’re on you,” chanted Greenbrier, struggling to conceal his contempt.
At seven they dined in the Where-to-Dine-Well column.
That evening a galaxy had assembled there. Bright shone the lights o’er fair women and br—let it go, anyhow—brave men. The orchestra played charmingly. Hardly had a tip from a diner been placed in its hands by a waiter when it would burst forth into soniferousness. The more beer you contributed to it the more Meyerbeer it gave you. Which is reciprocity.
