At a corner of the table, speechless, unobserved, ignored, sat Dabney, of whom nothing was known but his name, the silent old man who made no friends.

He ate and drank quietly, dipping his sandwich in his lemonade.
Osterman ate all the olives he could lay his hands on, a score of them, fifty of them, a hundred of them.

He touched no crumb of anything else.
Old Broderson stared at him, his jaw fallen.

Osterman declared he had once eaten a thousand on a bet.

The men called each others' attention to him.