Tony West's raspy voice chimed out a welcome, as Merriton went forward,
his hand outstretched.
"Hello, old man!" said Tony. "How goes it? Lookin' a bit white about the
gills, aren't you, eh?... Whew! Merriton, old chap, that's my ribs, if
you don't mind. I've no penchant for your bayonet-like elbow to go
prodding into 'em!"
Merriton raised an eyebrow, frowned heavily, and by every other method
under the sun tried to make it plain to West that the topic was taboo.
Wherefore West raised _his_ eyebrows, began to make a hasty exclamation,
thought better of it, and then clapping his hand over his mouth broke
into whistling the latest jazz tune, as though he had completely
extricated both feet from the unfortunate mire he had planted them
in--but with very little success.
Wynne was a frowning Hercules as he entered the pleasant smoke-filled
room. Merriton's arm lay upon his sleeve, and he endured because he had
to--that was all.
"Hello!" he said, to Lester Stark's rather half-hearted greeting--Lester
Stark never had liked Dacre Wynne and they both knew it.
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