remarkable character. He is full of philosophy. He
quoted Herbert Spencer to me the other night. He has a sly way--and a
somewhat disconcerting one--when you order a drink, of trying to induce
you to take mineral water, and if he can, and O'Corrigan is not within
hearing, he serves a temperance lecture with every Scotch and soda."
Marshall tapped his forehead. "A little queer," he said sagely, "but
shrewd. By Jove, there he is now arguing with Bob Grant--a temperance
lecture, I'll bet--trying to persuade him to take plain soda."

I looked over my shoulder to see this philosophic waiter who served
temperance lectures with whiskey. His back was to me. I saw only a
tall, loose-jointed figure clad in a waiter's jacket, a long, black arm
outstretched, a napkin draped over it, a long, thin hand clutching a
bill-of-fare, and a head of dark hair shot with white. The
bill-of-fare struck the table in emphasis, the napkin waved like a flag
of battle, both arms were stretched out wide in appeal. Grant laughed
again--uproariously.

"I'll bet he is trying to uplift those fellows," said Marshall. "He
has a good chance to get in a word, as O'Corrigan is in the next room."

I turned to my companion. At that moment I was more interested in the
non-arrival of the welsh-rabbit than in the scene behind me, for
waiters are by nature inclined to be voluble when the opportunity is
given them, and to me there was nothing particularly amusing in the
picture of young Grant, with that graciousness which comes with too
much drink, condescending to argue with this crack-brained fellow who
moved with his head in the clouds while his weary feet shuffled in and
out of O'Corrigan's kitchen. At the moment there was nothing familiar
to me in the tall, thin figure, nothing more than I should have seen in
any other lank, shambling waiter waving a napkin and a bill-of-fare. I
was growing tired. I was regretting that I had even allowed Tom
Marshall to inveigle me out so late, to breathe heavy air and to eat
heavy food at this hour, when I should be refreshing my body with sleep.

But Tom Marshall's spirits grew higher as the night grew older. He was
immensely comfortable with his beer and cigarettes, immensely amused at
the argument which was going on behind my back.

"You really must meet Andrew. You will enjoy him, Malcolm," he said.
"I'll call him over when he is through with those men. He is a
character worth knowing."

"You speak o