Sam Ward sat at the outer edge of the crowd of overdressed
females and overfed men, and, with a sardonic smile, listened
to Flagg telling his assembled friends and sycophants how
glad he was they were there to see him give away a million
dollars.

"Aren't you going to get his speech?", asked Redding, the
staff photographer.

"Get HIS speech!" said Sam. "They have Pinkertons all over
the grounds to see that you don't escape with less than three
copies. I'm waiting to hear the ritual they always have, and
then I'm going to sprint for the first train back to the
centre of civilization."

"There's going to be a fine lunch," said Redding, "and
reporters are expected. I asked the policeman if we were, and
he said we were."

Sam rose, shook his trousers into place, stuck his stick
under his armpit and smoothed his yellow gloves. He was very
thoughtful of his clothes and always treated them with
courtesy.

"You can have my share," he said. "I cannot forget that I am
fifty-five minutes from Broadway. And even if I were starving
I would rather have a club sandwich in New York than a
Thanksgiving turkey dinner in New Rochelle."