This urbanity of mood was still with him when some days later he
dropped into the Magnolia Club on his way home, his purpose being
to find Garry and to hear about the supper which his club friends
had given him to celebrate his winning of the Morris ring.
Little Biffton was keeping watch when Jack swung in with that free
stride of his that showed more than anything else his muscular
body and the way he had taken care of and improved it. No dumb-
bells or clubs for fifteen minutes in the morning--but astride a
horse, his thighs gripping a bare-back, roaming the hills day
after day--the kind of outdoor experience that hardens a man all
over without specializing his biceps or his running gear. Little
Biff never had any swing to his gait--none that his fellows ever
noticed. Biff went in for repose--sometimes hours at a time. Given
a club chair, a package of cigarettes and some one to talk to him
and Biff could be happy a whole afternoon.
"Ah, Breen, old man! Come to anchor." Here he moved back a chair
an inch or two with his foot, and pushed his silver cigarette-case
toward the newcomer.
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