“Oh, that’s nothing,” she replied, laughing.  “Such mistakes are common enough with men, I should think.”

“Not with sensible men.  What have you here?”

“Oh, some stupid paragraphs about women.”

“They’ll keep till to-morrow.”

“But Mr. Mitchell said he wanted them to-day.”

“Tell him if he calls for them that I want them to-morrow.  You’d better go home and rest.”

“Rest?  Why, I haven’t done anything to make me tired.”

“Well, you don’t know how soon you may be tired, and you’d better take your rest in advance.  All right, John,” he said in a louder tone, “I’m with you.”

When they entered the office of the Press Club, a forensic voice, followed by laughter, bore to them the intelligence that Mr. Flummers was in the front room, declaiming his recent adventures.  They found the orator measuredly stepping the short distance between this round table and the post on which was fixed the button of the electric bell.  Led by fondness to believe that some one, moved to generosity, might ask him to ring for the drinks, he showed a disposition to loiter whenever he reached the post, and the light of eager expectancy and the shadow of sore disappointment played a trick pantomime on his countenance.

“Oh, ho, ho, here come two of my staff.  John, I have been talking for an hour, and the bell is rusting from disuse.”

“Why don’t you ring it on your own account?”

“Oh, no; you can’t expect one man to do everything.”

“Go on with your story.”

“But is there anything in it?”

“If you mean your story, I don’t think there’s much in it.”

“If you cut it short enough,” said Mortimer, “we’ll all contribute.”

“There spoke a disgruntled Englishman,” Flummers exclaimed.  “Having no humor himself, he scowls on the—­the”—­He scalloped the air, but it failed to bring the right word.  “Jim, you’d better confine yourself to the writing of encyclopedias and not meddle with the buzz-saw of—­of sharp retort.”

“He appears to have made it that time,” said Whittlesy.

“Now, Whit, it may behoove some men to speak, but it doesn’t behoove you.  Remember that I hold you in the hollow of my hand.”

“Let us have the story,” said Henry.

“But is the laborer worthy of his hire—­is there anything in it?”

“Yes, ring the bell.”

“That’s the stuff.”

“Flummers,” some one remarked, a few moments later, “I don’t think that I ever saw you drunk.”

Flummers tapped his forehead and replied:  “The brain predominates the jag.  But I must gather up the flapping ends of my discourse.  I will begin again.”

“Are you going to repeat that dose of bloody rot?” Mortimer asked.

“Jim, I pity you.  I pity any man that can’t see a point when it’s held under his nose.”

“Or smell one when it’s held under his eye,” someone suggested.