"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. "You fellows are pretty gay," said Flummers. "You must have drawn your princely stipends this week." He hesitated a moment, pressed his hand to his forehead, cut a fish-hook in the air and resumed his recital: "When I reached Omaha it was snowing. The heavens wore a feathery frown." "He didn't fill," said Whittlesy. Flummers condemned him with a look and continued: "The wind whetted itself to keenness on a bleak knob and came down to shave its unhappy customers." "He made his flush," said Whittlesy.