The little old gentleman with the eyeglass leaned forward.
"Have you any notion, my dear Elizabeth," he asked, "why our friend Pritchard is so much in evidence just at present ?" "Not on account of you, Jimmy," she answered, "nor of any one else here, in fact.

The truth is he has conceived a violent admiration for me--an admiration so pronounced, indeed, that he hates to let me out of his sight." They all laughed uproariously.

Then Walter Crease, the journalist, leaned forward,--a man with a long, narrow face, yellow-stained fingers, and hollow cheekbones.

He glanced around the room before he spoke, and his voice sounded like a hoarse whisper.
"See here," he said, "seems to me Pritchard is getting mighty awkward.
He hasn't got his posse around him in this country, anyway." There was a dead silence for several seconds.

Then the little old gentleman nodded solemnly.
"I am a trifle tired of Pritchard myself," he admitted, "and he certainly knows too much.