lutely no! Not a bit like it! No, no, far from it! Well, how about it? How do we go? What? Yes? No?"
"What on earth are you talking about?"
"Call it off, old thing!"
"Call what off?"
'This festive old strike."
"Not on your—hallo, Dan! Back again?"
Mr. Brewster, looming over the table like a thundercloud, regarded Archie with more than his customary hostility. Life was no pleasant thing for the proprietor of the Cosmopolis just now. Once a man starts building hotels, the thing becomes like dram-drinking. Any hitch, any sudden cutting-off of the daily dose, has the worst effects; and the strike which was holding up the construction of his latest effort had plunged Mr. Brewster into a restless gloom. In addition to having this strike on his hands, he had had to abandon his annual fishing-trip just when he had begun to enjoy it; and, as if all this were not enough, here was his son-in-law sitting at his table. Mr. Brewster had a feeling that this was more than man was meant to bear.
"What do you want?" he demanded.
"Hallo, old thing!" said Archie. "Come and join the party!"
"Don't call me old thing!"
"Right-o, old companion, just as you say. I say, I was just going to suggest to Mr. Connolly that we should all go up to my suite and talk this business over quietly."
"He says he's the manager of your new hotel," said Mr. Connolly. "Is that right?"
"I suppose so," said Mr. Brewster, gloomily.
