coffee and a ham on rye. Did you remember to put out the milk bottle?"

For two weeks there had been none of that. Gussie had learned to creep
silently into bed, and her mother, being a mother, feigned sleep.

To-night at her desk Miss Gussie Fink seemed a shade cooler, more
self-contained, and daisylike than ever. From somewhere at the back of
her head she could see that Heiny was avoiding her desk and was using the
services of the checker at the other end of the room. And even as the
poison of this was eating into her heart she was tapping her forefinger
imperatively on the desk before her and saying to Tony, the Crook:

"Down on the table with that tray, Tony--flat. This may be a busy little
New Year's Eve, but you can't come any of your sleight-of-hand stuff on
me." For Tony had a little trick of concealing a dollar-and-a-quarter
sirloin by the simple method of slapping the platter close to the
underside of his tray and holding it there with long, lean fingers
outspread, the entire bit of knavery being concealed in the folds of a
flowing white napkin in the hand that balanced the tray. Into Tony's
eyes there came a baleful gleam. His lean jaw jutted out threateningly.

"You're the real Weissenheimer kid, ain't you?" he sneered. "Never mind.
I'll get you at recess."

"Some day," drawled Miss Fink, checking the steak, "the house'll get wise
to your stuff and then you'll have to go back to the coal wagon. I know
so much about you it's beginning to make me uncomfortable. I hate to
carry around a burden of crime."

"You're a sorehead because Heiny turned you down and now----"

"Move on there!" snapped Miss Fink, "or I'll call the steward to settle
you. Maybe he'd be interested to know that you've been counting in the
date and your waiter's number, and adding 'em in at the bottom of your
check."

Tony, the Crook, turned and skimmed away toward the dining-room, but the
taste of victory was bitter in Miss Fink's mouth.

Midnight struck. There came from the direction of the Pink Fountain Room
a clamor and din which penetrated the thickness of the padded doors that
separated the dining-room from the kitchen beyond. The sound rose and
swelled above the blare of the orchestra. Chairs scraped on the marble
floor as hundreds rose to their feet. The sound of clinking glasses
became as the jangling of a hundred bells. There came the sharp spat of
hand-clapping, then cheers, yells, huzzas. Through the swin