William Condor joined with an entirely unruffled face.
"As for Belch," continued Abel, with what would be called in animals an ugly expression--"Belch is the clown, and they left him off easy.

The Party is like the old kings, it keeps a good many fools to make it laugh." His tone was threatening, and nobody laughed.

General Belch looked as if he were restraining himself from knocking his friend down.

But they all saw that their host was mastered by his own liquor.
"Squeeze Lawrence Newt, will you?
Why, Lord, gentlemen, what do you suppose he thinks of you--I mean, of fellows like you ?" asked Abel.
He paused, and glared around him.

William Condor daintily knocked off the ash of his cigar faith the tip of his little finger, and said, calmly, "I am sure I don't know." "Nor care," said General Belch.
"He thinks you're all a set of white-livered sneaks!" shouted Abel, in a voice harsh and hoarse with liquor.
The gentlemen were silent.