st musical success yclept "Sammy." Thus, Mr. Jenkins strummed, Mr.
Stevens trilled, and Mr. Brimberly alternately beat the tempo with a
plump white finger and sipped his master's champagne until, having
emptied his glass, he turned to the bottle on the table beside him,
found that empty also, crossed to the two bottles on the mantel, found
them likewise void and had tried the two upon the piano with no better
success, when, the song being ended, Mr. Jenkins struck in with:

"All dead men, Brim! Six of 'em between us--not bad going, what?"

"And very good fizz too, on the whole!" added Mr. Stevens. "I always
sing better on champagne. But come, Brim my boy, I've obliged with
everything I know, and Jenk, 'e 's played everything 'e knows, and
I must say with great delicacy an' feelin'--now it's your
turn--somethin'."

"Well," answered Mr. Brimberly, squinting at an empty bottle, "I used to
know a very good song once, called 'Let's drownd all our sorrers and
cares.' But good 'eavens! we can't drownd 'em in empty bottles, can we?"

"Oh, very good!" chuckled Mr. Jenkins, "oh, very prime! If I might
suggest, there's nothin' like port--port's excellent tipple for
drowndin' sorrer and downing care--what?"

"Port, sir?" repeated Mr. Brimberly, "we 'ave enough port in our
cellars to drownd every sorrer an' care in Noo York City. I'm proud of
our port, sir, and I'm reckoned a bit of a connysoor--"

"Ah, it takes a eddicated palate to appreciate good port!" nodded Mr.
Jenkins loftily, "a eddicated palate--what?"

"Cert'nly!" added Mr. Stevens, "an' here's two palates waitin', waitin'
an' ready to appreciate till daylight doth appear."

"There's nothin' like port!" sighed Mr. Brimberly, setting aside the
empty champagne bottle, "nothin' like port, and there's Young Har 'ardly
can tell it from sherry--oh, the Goth! the Vandyle! All this good stuff
would be layin' idle if it wasn't for me! Young Har ain't got no right
to be a millionaire; 'is money's wasted on 'im--he neglects 'is
opportoonities shameful--eh, shameful! What I say is--what's the use
of bein' a millionaire if you don't air your millions?"

Hereupon Mr. Jenkins rocked himself to and fro over his banjo in a
polite ecstasy of mirth.

"Oh, by Jove!" he gasped, "if that ain't infernal clever, I'll be shot!
Oh, doocid clever I call it--what!"

"Er--by the way, Brim," said Mr. Stevens, his glance roving toward the
open window, "where does he happen to be to-night?"