ike animals in a cage, was about fifty
people, and over at one end, all by himself, looms up Old Hickory,
lookin' big and ugly and disgusted with life.

"Well!" he growls. "So you got here, eh? Hope you like it as well as I
do. Bring that mail inside."

While he's more or less grouchy, he don't act any more like a nervous
wreck than usual. I take it that he was some tired when he got up here
night before; but that he cut out dinner and turned in for a good
twelve-hour snooze instead. Then he's had a quiet day, and I judge he
was a lot better already.

He's just got well into his letters, when an attendant guy in a white
duck uniform steps in and taps him on the shoulder.

"Well?" says Old Hickory.

"Vesper service is beginning in the chapel, sir," says the gent.

"Let it begin, then," says Mr. Ellins.

"But," says the gent, "it is usual for guests to----"

"It isn't for me!" snaps Mr. Ellins. "You get out!"

And the gent got out.

We could hear 'em singin' hymns and so on for half an hour; but Mr.
Ellins keeps right on goin' through his mail and makin' notes on the
envelops until six o'clock, when a big gong rings.

"Thank heaven! Dinner!" says he. "Come on, Torchy; I'm hungry enough to
eat a bale of hay!" Then he's hardly got into his chair in the dinin'
room before he's snapping his fingers for a waiter. "Hey!" he sings out.
"Bring me a dry Martini right away, and a pint of Chateau Yquem with the
fish."

"Excuse me," says the waiter, "but there isn't anything like that on the
bill of fare. If it's something to drink you want, you can order
buttermilk, which is extra."

"Buttermilk!" snorts Old Hickory. "Say, where's the proprietor? Send him
over here!"

He didn't have to call him twice; for the boss of the Restorium had
heard the row and was glidin' our way as fast as his rubber heels would
let him. He's a short legged, pop eyed, red faced party, wearin' cute
white side whiskers, a black Prince Albert, and a minister's necktie.

"Gently, gently," says he, pattin' the air with his hands and puckering
his mouth. "Remember to speak softly in the dining room."

"All right, Doc," says Mr. Ellins; "but I want a cocktail."

"Tut, tut, brother!" says the Doc, liftin' a warnin' finger and raisin'
his eyebrows. "No intoxicating liquors served here, you know. Now a
glass of nice buttermilk is just what----"

"Bah! Buttermilk!" snorts Hickory. "Think I come from a dairy?"

The Doc does his best to soothe h