om me and hardly swaps a word. All I notices is the scornful way
Lizzie asks if they'll have soup, and the tremble to Bob Cathaway's hand
as he lifts his water tumbler.

As there was only us three in the room, and as none of us seemed to have
anything to say, it wa'n't what you might call a boisterous assemblage.
While I was waitin' for dessert I put in the time gazin' around at the
scenery, from the moldy pickle jars at either end of the table, over to
the walnut sideboard where they kept the plated cake basket and the
ketchup bottles, across to the framed fruit piece that had seen so many
hard fly seasons, and up to the smoky ceilin'. I looked everywhere except
at the pair opposite.

Lizzie was balancin' the soup plates on her left arm and singsongin' the
bill of fare to 'em. "Col'-pork-col'-ham-an'-corn-beef-'n'-cabbage," says
she.

If Bob Cathaway didn't shudder at that, I did for him. "You may bring
me--er--some of the latter," says he.

I tested the canned peaches and then took a sneak. On one side of the
front hall was the hotel parlor, full of plush furniture and stuffed
birds. The office and bar was on the other. I strolls in where half a
dozen Clam Creekers was sittin' around a big sawdust box indulgin' in
target practice; but after a couple of sniffs I concludes that the
breathin' air is all outside.

After half an hour's stroll I goes in, takes a lamp off the hall table,
and climbs up to No. 7. It's as warm and cheerful as an underground beer
vault. Also I finds the window nailed down. Huntin' for someone to fetch
me a hammer was what sent me roamin' through the hall and took me past
No. 11, where the door was part way open. And in there, with an oil-stove
to keep 'em from freezin', I see Mr. and Mrs. Bob Cathaway sittin' at a
little marble topped table playin' double dummy bridge. Say, do you know,
that unexpected glimpse of this little private hard luck proposition of
theirs kind of got me in the short ribs. And next thing I knew I had my
head in the door.

"For the love of Mike," says I, "how do you stand it?"

"Eh?" says Bob, droppin' his cards and starin' at me. "I--I beg pardon?"

Well, with that I steps in, tells him who I am, and how I'd just had a
talk with Brother DeLancey. Do I get the glad hand? Why, you'd thought I
was a blooming he angel come straight from the pearly gates. Bob drags me
in, pushes me into the only rocker in the room, shoves a cigar box at me,
and begins to haul decante