inded to partake of Sir Slosson's
cheer and regale him with the wealth of his joyous discourse.

THE GOOD KNIGHT.

Five nights out of the week Field spent some part of the evening at
one of the principal theatres of the town, of which at that time there
were five. He was generally accompanied by Mrs. Field and her sister,
Miss Comstock, who subsequently became Mrs. Ballantyne. When it was a
family party, Ballantyne and I would join it about the last act, and
there was invariably a late supper party, which broke up only in time
for the last north-bound car. When Field was a self-invited guest with
any of his intimates at dinner the party would adjourn for a round of
the theatres, ending at that one where the star or leading actor was
most likely to join in a symposium of steak and story at Billy Boyle's
English chop-house. This resort, on Calhoun Place, between Dearborn
and Clark Streets, was for many years the most famous all-night
eating-house in Chicago. For chops and steaks it had not its equal in
America, possibly not in the world. Long after we had ceased to
frequent Boyle's, so long that our patronage could not have been
charged with any share in the catastrophe, it went into the hands of
the sheriff. This afforded Field an opportunity to write the following
sympathetic and serio-whimsical reminiscence of a unique institution
in Chicago life:

It is unpleasant and it is hard to think of Billy Boyle's chop-house
as a thing of the past, for that resort has become so closely
identified with certain classes and with certain phases of life in
Chicago that it seems it must necessarily keep right on forever in
its delectable career. We much prefer to regard its troubles as
temporary, and to believe that presently its hospitable doors will be
thrown open again to the same hungry, appreciative patrons who for so
many years have partaken of its cheer.

When the sheriff asked Billy Boyle the other day where the key to the
door was, Billy seemed to feel hurt. What did Billy know about a key,
and what use had he ever found for one in that hospitable spot,
whither famished folk of every class gravitated naturally for the
flying succor of Billy's larder?

"The door never had a key," said Billy. "Only once in all the time I
have been here has the place been closed, and then it was but four
hours."

Down in New Orleans there is a famous old saloon called the Sazeraz.
For fifty-four y