My. Kirby put a hand affectionately upon his old friend's shoulder and pushed him to the door of the smoking-room they had just left. He shut that door behind him. None of the guests had noticed. It was so much to the good.
"It 's gone! It 's gone!" said John Brassington twice.
He had his hands together and was interlacing the fingers of them nervously.
Mr. Kirby was paying no attention; he was squatting on his hams at a sideboard, and saying—
"It 's lucky that I do John Perkin's business for him, I 'm being damned familiar."
He brought out a decanter of brandy, chucked the heel of Mr. Brassington's port into the fire, and poured out a glassful of the spirit.
"I always forget your last craze, John," he said; "but if I was a doctor I should tell you to drink that."
It 's gone! It 's gone!" said John Brassington twice.
"John Brassington drank a little of the brandy, and Mr. Kirby went on—
"Don't bother about Belgium to-night, my boy. In the first place, take my overcoat. I am cleverer than you in these crushes, I don't even hang it on a peg. I leave it" (and
