“Its central feature was a large round table, at which about dozen men, one or two young, one or two old, but most of them in middle age, sat silently drinking what would seem from its color, and the shape of the glasses, to be sherry. “Gentlemen,” said my sponsor, “you have a visitor from New York. I know you’ll want to make him welcome.” One of the writers, a flabby-cheeked individual with the melancholy eyes of a hound, gestured with his forefinger. “There’s a place there, next to Spang.” I a...ssumed it was Spang, a sallow, longlipped man, who moved so that I might slide into the chair beside him. But when I said, “How do you do, Mr. Spang. I’m Russel Wren,” he replied, in a high-tenor voice, “Oh, I’m not Spang. I’m Hinkle.” “Since when are you not Spang?” asked the sad-eyed man who had first spoken to me. “I’ve never been Spang. He’s deceased.” “If that’s so, then why have you never mentioned it before?” “There’s never been an occasion to do so,”MoreLessRead More Read Less
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