“I McAllister, with his friend Wainwright, was lounging before the fire in the big room, having a little private Story Teller’s Night of their own. It was in the early autumn, and neither of the clubmen were really settled in town as yet, the former having run down from the Berkshires only for a few days, and the latter having just landed from the Cedric. The sight of Tomlinson, who appeared tentatively in the distance and then, receiving no encouragement, stalked slowly away, reminded Wainwrigh...t of something he had heard in Paris. “I base my claim to your sympathetic credence, McAllister, upon the impregnable rock of universally accepted fact that Tomlinson is a highfalutin ass. I see that you agree. Very good, then; I proceed. In the first place, you must know that our anemic friend decided last spring that the state of his health required a trip to Paris. He therefore went—alone. The reason is obvious. Who should he fall in with at the Hotel Continental but a gentleman named Buncomb—Colonel C.MoreLessRead More Read Less
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