"Great old boy, isn't he?
We had quite a time there together." The barkeeper was setting out the glasses and bottle before them, and they now poured out the draught as they talked, Drouet filling his to within a third of full, as was considered proper, and Hurstwood taking the barest suggestion of whiskey and modifying it with seltzer.
"What's become of Caryoe ?" remarked Hurstwood.

"I haven't seen him around here in two weeks." "Laid up, they say," exclaimed Drouet.

"Say, he's a gouty old boy!" "Made a lot of money in his time, though, hasn't he ?" "Yes, wads of it," returned Drouet.

"He won't live much longer.

Barely comes down to the office now." "Just one boy, hasn't he ?" asked Hurstwood.
"Yes, and a swift-pacer," laughed Drouet.
"I guess he can't hurt the business very much, though, with the other members all there." "No, he can't injure that any, I guess." Hurstwood was standing, his coat open, his thumbs in his pockets, the light on his jewels and rings relieving them with agreeable distinctness.