Now, doing things for other folks ain't one of Pinckney's strong points,
as a rule. Not that he wouldn't if he thought of it and could find the
time; but gen'rally he has too many other things on his schedule to
indulge much in the little deeds of kindness game. When he does start out
to do good, though, he makes a job of it. But look who he picks out!

Course, I knew why. He's explained all that to me more'n once. Seems
there was an old waiter at the club, a quiet, soft-spoken, bald-headed
relic, who had served him with more lobster Newburg than you could load
on a scow, and enough highballs to float the _Mauretania_ in. In fact,
he'd been waitin' there as long as Pinckney had been a member. They'd
been kind of chummy, in a way, too. It had always been "Good morning,
Peter," and "Hope I see you well, sir," between them, and Pinckney never
had to bother about whether he liked a dash of bitters in this, or if
that ought to be served frappe or plain. Peter knew, and Peter never
forgot.

Then one day when Pinckney's just squarin' off to his lunch he notices
that he's been given plain, ordinary salt butter instead of the sweet
kind he always has; so he puts up a finger to call Peter over and have a
swap made. When he glances up, though, he finds Peter ain't there at
all.

"Oh, I say," says he, "but where is Peter?"

"Peter, sir?" says the new man. "Very sorry, sir, but Peter's dead."

"Dead!" says Pinckney. "Why--why--how long has that been?"

"Over a month, sir," says he. "Anything wrong, sir?"

To be sure, Pinckney hadn't been there reg'lar; but he'd been in off and
on, and when he comes to think how this old chap, that knew all his
whims, and kept track of 'em so faithful, had dropped out without his
ever having heard a word about it--why, he felt kind of broke up. You
see, he'd always meant to do something nice for old Peter; but he'd never
got round to it, and here the first thing he knows Peter's been under the
sod for more'n a month.

That's what set Pinckney to inquirin' if Peter hadn't left a fam'ly or
anything, which results in his diggin' up this Spotty youth. I forgot
just what his first name was, it being something outlandish that don't go
with Cahill at all; but it seems he was born over in India, where old
Peter was soldierin' at the time, and they'd picked up one of the native
names. Maybe that's what ailed the boy from the start.

Anyway, Peter had come back from there a widower, drifted to New Y