"Beneath the salt," said Slim.

"Above it," came Fatty's correction. "I was born above it, and
I've never travelled second class. First or steerage, but no
intermediate in mine."

"Yourself?" Whiskers queried of Slim.

"In broken glass to the Queen, God bless her," Slim answered,
solemnly, without snarl or sneer.

"In the pantry?" Fatty insinuated.

Simultaneously Slim reached for his quoit, and Whiskers and Fatty
for their rocks.

"Now don't let's get feverish," Fatty said, dropping his own
weapon. "We aren't scum. We're gentlemen. Let's drink like
gentlemen."

"Let it be a real drinking," Whiskers approved.

"Let's get petrified," Slim agreed. "Many a distillery's flowed
under the bridge since we were gentlemen; but let's forget the long
road we've travelled since, and hit our doss in the good old
fashion in which every gentleman went to bed when we were young."

"My father done it--did it," Fatty concurred and corrected, as old
recollections exploded long-sealed brain-cells of connotation and