mmon,
transient, periodical, suburban, habitual, and unconscious--for and by
whom the place was, and is, maintained. In and out among these
circulated several able-bodied waiters with soiled shirt-bosoms, iron
jaws and, not infrequently, cauliflower ears.

Spying out P. Sybarite, one of these bore down upon him with an air of
the most flattering camaraderie.

It was true that the little man, in a dark coat and hat alike too
large for him, with his shabby shoes and trousers and apologetic
demeanour, promised no very profitable plucking; but the rule of Dutch
House is to neglect none, however lowly.

"Well, bo'," grunted the waiter cheerfully, polishing off the top of
the table with a saturated towel, "yuh don't come round's often as y'
uster."

"That's a fact," P. Sybarite agreed. "I've been a long time
away--haven't I?"

"Yuh said somethin' _then_. Mus' be months sinst I seen yuh last.
What's the trouble? Y' ain't soured on the old joint, huh?"

"No," P. Sybarite apologised. "I've been--away. Where's Red?"

"MacManus--?" asked the waiter, beginning to believe that this strange
little creature must in fact be a "regular" of the "bunch"--one whose
name and face had somehow, unaccountably, slipped from his memory.

"November," P. Sybarite corrected.

"Oh, he's stickin' round--pretty busy to-night. Wouldn't fuss him, 'f
I was yuh, 'less it's somethin' extra."

"I make you," said the little man. "But this is his business. Tell him
I have a message for him, will you?"

"Just as yuh say, bo'," returned the other cautiously. "What's it
goin' to be? Bucket of grape or a tub of suds?"

"Do I look like the foolish waters?" enquired P. Sybarite with mild
resentment. "Back me up a shell of lather."

Grinning amiably at this happy metaphorical description of the glass
of lager regularly served at Dutch House, the waiter shouldered
through the swinging doors to the bar....

Then fell a brief lull in the melange of music and tongues, during
which a boyish voice lifted up in clear remonstrance at a table some
three removed from that at which P. Sybarite sat:

"But I don't _want_ anything more to drink!"

P. Sybarite looked that way. The owner of the voice (now again
drowned) was apparently a youngster of twenty years--not more--clean
of limb and feature, with a hot flush discolouring his good-looking
face, a hectic glitter in his eyes, and a stubborn smile on his lips.

Lounging low in a straight-backed chair, with