the back of the room. Then with some difficulty we
wrenched Ben and Lon and Jeff from the next table and got out into the
crisp air of dawn. The New Yorker was now sunk deep in a trance and just
stood where he was put, with his hat on the wrong way. The other boys
had cheered up a lot owing to their late social career. Jeff Tuttle said
it was all nonsense about its being hard to break into New York society,
because look what he'd done in one brief evening without trying--and he
flashed three cards on which telephone numbers is written in dainty
feminine hands. He said if a modest and retiring stranger like himself
could do that much, just think what an out-and-out social climber might
achieve!

Right then I was ready to call it an absorbing and instructive evening
and get to bed. But no! Ben Sutton at sight of his now dazed New Yorker
has resumed his brooding and suddenly announces that we must all make a
pilgrimage to West Ninth Street and romantically view his old home which
his father told him to get out of twenty-five years ago, and which we
can observe by the first tender rays of dawn. He says he has been having
precious illusions shattered all evening, but this will be a holy moment
that nothing can queer--not even a born New Yorker that hasn't made the
grade and is at this moment so vitrified that he'd be a mere glass crash
if some one pushed him over.

I didn't want to go a bit. I could see that Jeff Tuttle would soon begin
dragging a hip, and the streets at that hour was no place for Lon Price,
with his naturally daring nature emphasized, as it were, from drinking
this here imprisoned laughter of the man that owned the joint we had
just left. But Ben was pleading in a broken voice for one sight of the
old home with its boyhood memories clustering about its modest front and
I was afraid he'd get to crying, so I give in wearily and we was once
more encased in taxicabs and on our way to the sacred scene. Ben had
quite an argument with the drivers when he give 'em the address. They
kept telling him there wasn't a thing open down there, but he finally
got his aim understood. The New Yorker's petrified remains was carefully
tucked into the cab with Ben.

And Ben suffered another cruel blow at the end of the ride. He climbed
out of the cab in a reverent manner, hoping to be overcome by the sight
of the cherished old home, and what did he find? He just couldn't
believe it at first. The dear old house had completely