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Smith, Francis Hopkinson, 1838-1915

"Peter: a novel of which he is not the hero"

Garry's merry voice led the others.
"Still hard at work, are you, Biffy? Why, hello, Jack!--how long
have you been here? Morlon, you know Mr. Breen, don't you?--Yes,
of course you do--new member--just elected. Get a move on that
carcass of yours, Biffy, and let somebody else get up to that
table. Charles, take the orders."
Jack had shaken everybody's hand by this time, Biffton having
moved back a foot or two, and the circle had widened so that the
poker party could reach their cocktails. Garry extended his arm
till his hand rested on Jack's shoulder.
"Nothing sets me up like a game of poker, old man. Been on the
building all day. You ought to come up with me some time--I'll
show you the greatest piece of steel construction you ever saw.
Mr. Morris was all over it to-day. Oh, by the way! Did that old
chunk of sandstone come up to see you last night? What did you say
his name was?"
Jack repeated Peter's cognomen--this time without rolling the
syllables under his tongue--said that Mr. Grayson had kept his
promise; that the evening had been delightful, and immediately
changed the subject.


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