As to the uplifting of the house of Breen & Co., and the possibility of so small a tail as himself being able to wag so large a dog as his uncle and his partners, that seemed now to be so chimerical an undertaking that he laughed when he thought of it. This urbanity of mood was still with him when some days later he dropped into the Magnolia Club on his way home, his purpose being to find Garry and to hear about the supper which his club friends had given him to celebrate his winning of the Morris ring. Little Biffton was keeping watch when Jack swung in with that free stride of his that showed more than anything else his muscular body and the way he had taken care of and improved it. No dumb-bells or clubs for fifteen minutes in the morning--but astride a horse, his thighs gripping a bare-back, roaming the hills day after day--the kind of outdoor experience that hardens a man all over without specializing his biceps or his running gear. Little Biff never had any swing to his gait--none that his fellows ever noticed. Biff went in for repose--sometimes hours at a time. Given a club chair, a package of cigarettes and some one to talk to him and Biff could be happy a whole afternoon. “Ah, Breen, old man! Come to anchor.” Here he moved back a chair an inch or two with his foot, and pushed his silver cigarette-case toward the newcomer. “Thank you,” replied Jack. “I've just dropped in to look for Garry Minott. Has he been in?” Biff was the bulletin-board of the Magnolia club. As he roomed upstairs, he could be found here at any hour of the day or night. Biff did not reply at once; there was no use in hurrying--not about anything. Besides, the connection between Biff's ears and his brain was never very good. One had to ring him up several times before he answered. Jack waited for an instant, and finding that the message was delayed in transmission, helped himself to one of Biff's “Specials”--bearing in gold letters his name “Brent Biffton” in full on the rice paper--dropped into the proffered chair and repeated the question: “Have you seen Garry?” “Yes--upstairs. Got a deck in the little room. Been there all afternoon. Might go up and butt in. Touch that bell before you go and say what.” “No--I won't drink anything, if you don't mind. You heard about Garry's winning the prize?” “No.” Biffton hadn't moved since he had elongated his foot in search of Jack's chair. “Why Garry got first prize in his office. I went with him to the supper; he's with Holker Morris, you know.” “Yes. Rather nice. Yes, I did hear. The fellows blew him off upstairs. Kept it up till the steward shut 'em out. Awfully clever fellow, Minott. My Governor wanted me to do something in architecture, but it takes such a lot of time... Funny how a fellow will dress himself.” Biffton's sleepy eyes were sweeping the Avenue. “Pendergast just passed wearing white spats--A month too late for spats--ought to know better. Touch the bell, Breen, and say what.”