"Come over here, Garry," he called, half rising to his feet to
attract his friend's attention.
Minott waved his hand in answer, waited until the point of the
story had been reached, and made his way toward Peter's end of the
table.
"Garry," he whispered, "I want to introduce you to Mr. Grayson--
the very dearest old gentleman you ever met in your whole life.
Sits right next to me."
"What, that old fellow that looks like a billiard ball in a high
collar?" muttered Minott with a twinkle in his eye. "We've been
wondering where Mr. Morris dug him up."
"Hush," said Breen--"he'll hear you."
"All right, but hurry up. I must say he doesn't look near so bad
when you get close to him."
"Mr. Grayson, I want you to know my friend Garry Minott."
Peter rose to his feet. "I DO know him," he said, holding out his
hand cordially. "I've been knowing him all the evening. He's made
most of the fun at his end of the table. You seem to have flaunted
your Corn Exchange banner on the smallest provocation, Mr.
Minott," and Peter's fingers gripped those of the young man.
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