"Well, well!" said Mr. Sims, as he opened one afternoon
a telegram that the deferential waiter brought upon a
tray. "This beats all! Old Ned Purvis wires that he's,
going to blow in to town to-night at seven."
Forthwith Mr. Sims fell to ordering dinner for the three
of us in a private room, with enough of an assortment of
gin cocktails and Scotch highballs to run a distillery,
and enough Vichy water and imported soda for a bath. "I
know old Ned!" he said as he added item after item to
the list.
At seven o'clock the waiter whispered, as in deep
confidence, that there was a gentleman below for Mr.
Sims.
It so happened that on that evening my friend's foot was
in bad shape, and rested on a chair. At his request I
went from the lounge room of the club downstairs to
welcome the new arrival.
Purvis I knew all about. My friend had spoken of him a
thousand times. He had played half-back on the football
team--a big hulking brute of a fellow. In fact, he was,
as pictured by Mr. Sims, a perfect colossus. And he played
football--as did all Mr. Sims's college chums--"plastered."
"Old Ned," so Mr. Sims would relate, "was pretty well
'soused' when the game started: but we put a hose at him
at half-time and got him into pretty good shape.
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