entered, stopped to glance at the tape of a sporting news ticker near
the bar, exchanged a word or two with the bartenders, and then selected
tables. Several times the two vacant chairs at the captain's table were
on the point of being taken, but each time the prospective occupants
went elsewhere.

At length, however, two young men, laughing and talking rather loudly,
sauntered through the room. One of them paused.

"Here are a couple," he said, indicating the chairs.

His companion, an undersized, dapper individual, whose raiment--suit,
socks, shirt, shoes, hat and tie--might comprehensively be described as
a symphony in brown, paused also, turned and looked at the chairs, then
at the table, and finally at the captain.

"Yes," he drawled, regarding the latter fixedly, "so I see. Well,
perhaps we can't do better. This place is getting too infernally common,
though. Don't think I shall come here again. If it wasn't that they put
up the best cocktail in town I should have quit before. All right, this
will have to do, I suppose."

He seated himself in one of the chairs. His friend followed suit. The
watchful waiter was on hand immediately.

"Good afternoon, gentlemen," he said, bowing obsequiously.

Neither of the young men acknowledged the bow or the greeting, although
it was evident that the waiter was an old acquaintance. The symphony in
brown did not even turn his head.

"Two dry Martinis," he said. "And mind that they ARE dry. Have Charlie
make them himself. If that other fellow does it I'll send them back."

"Yes, sir. All right, sir. Will you have a bit of lunch with them, sir?
Caviare sandwich or--"

"No."

"Shall I bring cigars, sir?"

"Lord, no! The last I had here nearly poisoned me. Get the cocktails and
be lively about it."

The waiter departed. The young gentleman drew a gold cigarette case from
his pocket.

"Here you are," he drawled, proffering the case. "Cigars!" with a
contemptuous laugh. "They buy their cigars by the yard, at the rope
walk. Fact, Monty; take my word for it."

"Monty" laughed. "That's pretty rough, Tacks," he declared.

"Oh, but it's so. You can actually smell the hemp. Eh? By gad, you can
smell it now, can't you?"

Captain Dan was relighting the stump of his "ten-center" which had gone
out. He had scarcely noticed the newcomers; his thoughts were far away
from Scarford and the Palatine Hotel. Now, however, he suddenly became
aware that his tablemates were regarding