in progress. Giddy, leaning slightly on his stick, stood watching it. Suddenly he was aware that all about the dim smoky little room players and loungers were standing in attitudes of exaggerated elegance. Each was leaning on a cue, his elbow crooked in as near an imitation of Giddy’s position as the stick’s length would permit. The figure was curved so that it stuck out behind and before; the expression on each face was as asinine as its owner’s knowledge of the comic-weekly swell could make it; the little finger of the free hand was extravagantly bent. The players themselves walked with a mincing step about the table. And: “My deah fellah, what a pretty play. Mean to say, neat, don’t you know,” came incongruously from the lips of Reddy Lennigan, whose father ran the Lennigan House on Outagamie Street.