When they entered the office of the Press Club, a forensic voice,
followed by laughter, bore to them the intelligence that Mr. Flummers
was in the front room, declaiming his recent adventures. They found
the orator measuredly stepping the short distance between this round
table and the post on which was fixed the button of the electric bell.
Led by fondness to believe that some one, moved to generosity, might
ask him to ring for the drinks, he showed a disposition to loiter
whenever he reached the post, and the light of eager expectancy and
the shadow of sore disappointment played a trick pantomime on his
countenance.

"Oh, ho, ho, here come two of my staff. John, I have been talking for
an hour, and the bell is rusting from disuse."

"Why don't you ring it on your own account?"

"Oh, no; you can't expect one man to do everything."

"Go on with your story."

"But is there anything in it?"

"If you mean your story, I don't think there's much in it."

"If you cut it short enough," said Mortimer, "we'll all contribute."

"There spoke a disgruntled Englishman," Flummers exclaimed. "Having no
humor himself, he scowls on the--the"--He scalloped the air, but it
failed to bring the right word. "Jim, you'd better confine yourself to
the writing of encyclopedias and not meddle with the buzz-saw of--of
sharp retort."

"He appears to have made it that time," said Whittlesy.

"Now, Whit, it may behoove some men to speak, but it doesn't behoove
you. Remember that I hold you in the hollow of my hand."

"Let us have the story," said Henry.

"But is the laborer worthy of his hire--is there anything in it?"

"Yes, ring the bell."

"That's the stuff."

"Flummers," some one remarked, a few moments later, "I don't think
that I ever saw you drunk."

Flummers tapped his forehead and replied: "The brain predominates the
jag. But I must gather up the flapping ends of my discourse. I will
begin again."

"Are you going to repeat that dose of bloody rot?" Mortimer asked.

"Jim, I pity you. I pity any man that can't see a point when it's held
under his nose."

"Or smell one when it's held under his eye," someone suggested.

"You fellows are pretty gay," said Flummers. "You must have drawn your
princely stipends this week." He hesitated a moment, pressed his hand
to his forehead, cut a fish-hook in the air and resumed his recital:

"When I reached Omaha it was snowing. The heavens wore a feathery
frown."

"He didn't fill