He laughed and repeated the last word slowly three times
and then giggled.

"Still sober. I tell Mrs. Van Dorn that when I can say cantatrice or
specification," he repeated that word slowly, "I'm fit to hold court."

"Oh, the keyhole in the door--
The keyhole in the door--"

he bellowed.

"Now, l-l-listen, T-T-Tom," insisted Perry. "I t-t-tell you the bunch
has g-g-got Grant Adams and the old man out there in the g-g-golf
l-links and they heard you were h-h-here and they s-s-sent me to tell
you they were g-g-going to g-g-give him all the d-d-degrees and they
w-w-want to t-t-tie a s-s-sign on him when they t-t-turn him loose and
h-h-head him for Om-m-ma-h-ha--"

"B-b-better h-h-h-head him for h-h-hell," mocked the Judge.

"Well, they've g-got an iron b-b-band they've b-b-bound on h-h-him and
they've got a b-b-board and some t-t-tar and they w-w-want a m-motto."

The Judge reached for his fountain pen in his white vest and when the
waiter had brought a sheet of paper, he scribbled while he sang
sleepily:

"Oh, there was a man and he could do,
He could do--he could do;

"Here," he pushed the paper to Perry, who saw the words:

"Get on to the Prince of Peace,
Big Boss of the Democracy of Labor."

"That's k-k-kind of t-t-tame, don't y-y-you think?" said Kyle.

"That's all right, Kyle--anyway, what I've written goes:

"Oh, there was an old woman in Guiana."

He sang and waved Kyle proudly away. And in another hour the waiter had
put him to bed.

* * * * *

It was nearly dawn when George Brotherton had told his story to Laura.
They sat in the little, close, varnish-smelling room to which he called
her.

She had come through rain from Harvey. As she came into the dreary,
shabby, little room in South Harvey, with its artificial palms and
artificial wreaths--cheap, commercial habiliments of ostentatious
mourning, Laura Van Dorn thought how cruel it was that he should be
there, in a public place at the end, with only the heavy hands of paid
attendants to do the last earthly services for him--whose whole life was
a symbol of love.

But her heart was stricken, deeply, poignantly stricken by the great
peace she found behind the white door. Yet thus the dust touches our
souls' profoundest depths--always with her memory of that great peace,
comes the memory of the odor of varnish and carbolic acid and the drawn,
spent face of George Brothert