Begin to-night, Mr. Ferdinand. I speak for
your health's sake, believe me."
So saying the Prophet hurried away, leaving Mr. Ferdinand almost as
firmly rooted to the Turkey carpet with surprise as if he had been woven
into the pattern at birth, and never unpicked in later years.
At ten that evening the Prophet, having escaped early from his dinner on
some extravagant plea of sudden illness or second gaiety, stood in the
small and sober passage of the celebrated Tintack Club and inquired
anxiously for Mr. Robert Green.
"Yes, sir. Mr. Green is upstairs in the smoke-room," said the
functionary whom the club grew under glass for the benefit of the
members and their friends.
"Sam, show this gentleman to Mr. Green."
Sam, who was a red-faced child in buttons, with a man's walk and the
back of one who knew as much as most people, obeyed this command, and
ushered the Prophet into a room with a sealing-wax red paper, in which
Robert Green was sitting alone, smoking a large cigar and glancing at
the "stony-broke edition" of an evening paper. He greeted the Prophet
with his usual unaffected cordiality, offered him every drink that had
yet been invented, and, on his refusal of them all, handed him a cigar
and a matchbox, and whistled "Ta-ra-ra-boom-de-av" at him in the most
friendly manner possible.
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