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He had been worrying himself over the unfortunate case of his friend, and now that Fate seemed to have provided a solution, it would be rash to interfere merely to ease the old bean's mind. If Squiffy was going to reform because he thought he had seen an imaginary snake, better not to let him know that the snake was a real one. "Dashed serious!" he said. "Bally dashed serious!" agreed Squiffy.
Then there was another Ross Wilbur Ross Wilbur, the alert, who was perfectly clear-headed, and who stood off to one side and watched his twin brother making a monkey of himself, without power and without even the desire of helping him. This latter Wilbur heard the iridescent sweater say: "Bust me, if y' a'n't squiffy, old man. Stand by a bit an' we'll have a ball."
He's getting a bit squiffy, if you ask me," suggested Norvil Thayre to the group centered where the punch-bowl was being administered. Norvil Thayre was not having a grouch. If he had ever had a grouch he had kept his secret well. An American by adoption, he was still aggressively British in speech, dress and eccentricity.
Looking on the jolly old stuff when it was red and what not, what?" "Exactly." Archie nodded. "Dear old Squiffy was always rather-a lad for the wassail-bowl. When I met him in Paris, I remember, he was quite tolerably blotto." "Precisely. And the failing has, I regret to say, grown on him since he returned from the war. My poor sister was extremely worried.
Fate since then had certainly supplied him with jobs with a lavish hand. By bed-time he would be an active accomplice to a theft, valet and companion to a snake he had never met, and as far as could gather the scope of his duties a combination of nursemaid and private detective to dear old Squiffy. It was past four o'clock when he returned to the Cosmopolis.
And here's a rummy coincidence. When they examined ME, I had no assets. And, when they examined Squiffy, HE had no assets! Rather extraordinary, what?" Mr. Brewster seemed to be in no mood for discussing coincidences. "I might have known he was a friend of yours!" he said, bitterly. "Well, if you want to see him, you'll have to do it outside my hotel." "Why, I thought he was stopping here."
He never says much, but it's whispered round the clubs that he thinks a lot. It was rumoured in the spring of nineteen-thirteen that Squiffy was on the point of making a bright remark, but it never came to anything." Mr. Brewster struggled with his feelings. "Who is he? You seem to know him." "Oh yes. Great pal of mine, Squiffy. We went through Eton, Oxford, and the Bankruptcy Court together.
Brewster, with cold fury, "tells me that he got a hint of the man's condition when he suddenly got up from his table and went the round of the room, pulling off all the table-cloths, and breaking everything that was on them. He then threw a number of rolls at the diners, and left. He seems to have gone straight to bed." "Dashed sensible of him, what? Sound, practical chap, Squiffy.
They were not an eiderdown quilt, but they would serve. He curled up in them and went to sleep. He had had an exciting day, and was glad to turn in. After about ten minutes, the tension of Squiffy's attitude relaxed. His heart, which had seemed to suspend its operations, began beating again. Reason reasserted itself. He peeped cautiously under the bed. He could see nothing. Squiffy was convinced.
Cultured members, on drinking it, were wont to say things about Locusta and Borgia. The commoner sort swore like hell at Freddy Parker. It made you feel squiffy after the sixth glass argumentative, magisterial, maudlin, taciturn, erotic, sentimental, sea-sick, ecstatic, paralysed, lachrymose, hilarious, pugilistic according to your temperament.
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