He was a thin old man, a wreck in a ruined body, but nothing would induce him to stand in any other way than as stiffly erect as possible like the soldier he had always been, even though he was obliged to lean on his silver-handled cane to do so. The Supper at Mr. One glance swept across the place and it was immediately apparent that Pottiswick had not, this time, been mistaken. As he balanced the photograph, a humorous twinkle came into his eyes. “Of course he may merely have been telling her who we were, but I think it improbable.
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