had just returned from an inspection trip west.

Young Breen looked down the length of the table, watched for a
moment a couple of draughtsmen who stood bowing and drinking to
each other in mock ceremony out of the quaint glasses filled from
the borrowed flagons, then glanced toward his friend Minott, just
then the centre of a cyclone that was stirring the group midway
the table.

"Come over here, Garry," he called, half rising to his feet to
attract his friend's attention.

Minott waved his hand in answer, waited until the point of the
story had been reached, and made his way toward Peter's end of the
table.

"Garry," he whispered, "I want to introduce you to Mr. Grayson--
the very dearest old gentleman you ever met in your whole life.
Sits right next to me."

"What, that old fellow that looks like a billiard ball in a high
collar?" muttered Minott with a twinkle in his eye. "We've been
wondering where Mr. Morris dug him up."

"Hush," said Breen--"he'll hear you."

"All right, but hurry up. I must say he doesn't look near so bad
when you get close to him."

"Mr. Grayson, I want you to know my friend Garry Minott."