Breen winced. First his truffles were criticised, and now his pet
Johannesburg that Parkins was pouring into special glasses--cooled
to an exact temperature--part of a case, he explained to Nixon,
who sat on his right, that Count Mosenheim had sent to a friend
here. Something must be done to head Hodges off or there was no
telling what might happen. The Madeira was the thing. He knew that
was all right, for Purviance had found it in Baltimore--part of a
private cellar belonging some time in the past to either the Swan
or Thomas families--he could not remember which.
The redheads were now in order, with squares of fried hominy, and
for the moment Hodges held his peace. This was Nixon's
opportunity, and he made the most of it. He had been born on the
eastern shore of Maryland and was brought up on canvasbacks, soft-
shell crabs and terrapin--not to mention clams and sheepshead.
Nixon therefore launched out on the habits of the sacred bird--the
crimes committed by the swivel-gun in the hands of the marketmen,
the consequent scarcity of the game and the near approach of the
time when the only rare specimens would be found in the glass
cases of the museums, ending his talk with a graphic description
of the great wooden platters of boiling-hot terrapin which were
served to passengers crossing to Norfolk in the old days.
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