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Smith, Francis Hopkinson, 1838-1915

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


A most exacting group of bons vivants, these. The host had
realized it and had brought out his best. Most of it, to be sure,
had come from Beaver Street, something "rather dry, with an
excellent bouquet," the crafty salesman with gimlet eyes had said;
but, then, most of the old Madeira does come from Beaver Street,
except Portman's, who has a fellow with a nose and a palate
hunting the auction rooms for that particular Sunset of 1834 which
had lain in old Mr. Grinnells cellar for twenty-two years; and
that other of 1839, once possessed by Colonel Purviance, a wine
which had so sharpened the Colonel's taste that he was always
uncomfortable when dining outside of his club or away from the
tables of one or two experts like himself.
These, then, were the palates to which Breen catered. Back of them
lay their good-will and good feeling; still back of them, again,
their bank accounts and--another scoop in Mukton! Most of the
guests had had a hand in the last deal and they were ready to
share in the next. Although this particular dinner was supposed to
be a celebration of the late victory, two others, equally
elaborate, had preceded it; both Crossbin and Hodges having
entertained nearly this same group of men at their own tables.


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