fifteen thousand dollars--the price of his old home--he gambled or
flung away in a little less than a year. He never invested it, but ate
into it day after day, sometimes to pay his gambling debts, sometimes to
indulge an absurd and extravagant whim, sometimes to pay his bill at the
Lick House, and sometimes for no reason at all, moved simply by a
reckless desire for spending.

On the evening of a certain Thanksgiving day, nine months after he had
sold the house, Vandover came in through the ladies' entrance of the
Imperial, going slowly down the passageway, looking into the little
rooms on his right for Ellis or the Dummy. There had been a great
intercollegiate football game that day, and Vandover, remembering that
he had once found an interest in such things, had at first determined to
see it. But toward eleven o'clock in the morning the rain had begun to
fall, and Ellis, who was to have gone with him, declared that he did not
care enough about the game to go out to it in the rain. Vandover was
disappointed; he fancied that he could have enjoyed the game--as much as
he could enjoy anything of late--but he hated to go to places alone. In
the end, however, he resolved to go whether Ellis went or not. It was a
holiday. Vandover had Ellis and the Dummy to lunch with him at the
hotel, where they arranged the menu of a famous Thanksgiving dinner for
that evening: they would meet in one of the little rooms of the Imperial
and go from there to the restaurant. As they were finishing their lunch
Vandover said:

"I got a new kind of liqueur yesterday--has a colour like violets and
smells like cologne. You fellows better come up to my room and try it.
I've got to go up and change anyway, if I go out to that game." They all
went up to Vandover's cheerless room, and Ellis began to argue with
Vandover against the folly of going anywhere in the rain.

"_You_ don't want to go to that game, Van. Just look how it's raining.
I'll bet there won't be a thousand people there. They'll probably
postpone the game anyway. Say, this _is_ queer looking stuff. What do
you call it?"

"_Creme violette._"

The Dummy set down his emptied liqueur glass on the mantelshelf, and
nodded approvingly at Vandover; then he scribbled, "Out of sight," on
his tablet.

"Tastes like cough syrup and alcohol," growled Ellis, scowling and
sipping. "I think a pint of this would make the Dummy talk Dutch. Keep
it up, Dummy," he continued, articulating distinctly