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Updated: June 8, 2025
Butefish sat down and dried the inside of his collar with his handkerchief midst tumultuous applause. The evening had been a veritable love-feast without a jarring note and everybody glowed with a feeling of neighborliness and confidence in a future that was to bring them affluence. "Mr. Chairman, may I have a word?"
Aside from himself, no one person had contributed more to Prouty's growth than the editor of the Grit. Mr. Butefish had arrived among the first with the intention of opening a plumbing shop, but since the water supply was furnished by a windmill the demand for his services was not apt to be pressing for some time to come.
The jeering voice from the rear of the room belonged to Toomey. The Club turned its head and looked at the interrupter in astonishment. He was sitting in the high-headed arrogance with which once upon a time they had all been familiar. Though momentarily disconcerted, Mr. Butefish collected himself and retorted: "Perhaps you have something better to offer, Toomey."
Scales and Hiram Butefish, the banquet did not promise to be an unqualified success. There was a tension which did not make for a proper appreciation of the excellently prepared food. In truth, nobody was entirely at his ease save Prentiss and Kate and Abram Pantin. The complacency of the cat who has eaten the canary was discontent beside the satisfaction upon Mr.
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