About him were squatty little
tables holding the remnants of the aftermath of the feast--siphons
and decanters and the sample boxes of cigars--full to the lid when
Parkins first passed them (why fresh cigars out of a full box
should have a better flavor than the same cigars from a half-
empty one has always been a mystery to the Scribe).
That the dinner had been a success gastronomically, socially and
financially, was apparent from the beatific boozy smile that
pervaded Breen's face as he lay back in his easy-chair. To disturb
a reverie of this kind was as bad as riding rough-shod over some
good father digesting his first meal after Lent, but the boy's
purpose was too lofty to be blunted by any such considerations.
Into the arena went his glove and out rang his challenge.
"What I have got to say to you, Uncle Arthur, breaks my heart, but
you have got to listen to me! I have waited until they were all
gone to tell you."
Breen laid his glass on the table and straightened himself in his
chair. His brain was reeling from the wine he had taken and his
hand unsteady, but he still had control of his arms and legs.
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