"My horse has had a fall," replied Jack, assuming to perfection—for he was a capital mimic,—the tones of Quilt Arnold. “Yeah, where the hell were you? My friends would have driven you home when I came home if I could have found you. Smith had never seen anything like it. She meant to leave anyway, or so she would tell herself later. Earles himself stood upon the threshold of his sanctum, the prototype of the smart natty Jew, with black hair, waxed moustache, and a wired flower in his button-hole. A neat tale, giving little away. One of the coolies held the paper lantern.
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