ing that the present occasion required. He seemed to have been
sent from heaven direct. In twenty minutes Mr. Smith was asking for him
at his hotel.

"Mr. Livingstone? Mr. Livingstone is out."

"Did he leave any word as to when he would come in?"

"Yes, sir. He said that a gentleman might call, and to say that he
certainly would be back at six, and would not go out again to-night."

Mr. Smith looked at his watch--it was 5:30. Had there been any
uncertainty as to Livingstone's return, he would have waited. But it
was clear that he was coming back to dine at his hotel, and to spend the
evening there. A note, therefore, could be trusted to do the business,
and by writing, instead of waiting, Mr. Smith would save half an hour;
moreover, if he waited, he would not have time to make the mayonnaise.

Probably it is only in Philadelphia that it ever occurs nowadays to the
master of a feast to dress the salad; which, doubtless, is the reason
why a better salad is served at certain dinner-tables in Philadelphia
than at any other dinner-tables in the whole world.

The thought of the mayonnaise settled the matter. Mr. Smith hastily
wrote an account of the trying situation, and concluded his note with a
solemn demand upon "dear old Van" to fill the vacant place, "in the holy
name of the class of '68, and for love of your old classmate, R. Smith."

IV.

Presently the person thus adjured returned to his hotel, and with
a somewhat puzzled expression read the adjuration. "R. Smith," he
murmured, reflectively. "I think I do remember a Dicky Smith, from
Philadelphia, at Columbia. But he wasn't in my class, and my class
wasn't '68, but '76, and I don't remember ever saying a dozen words
to him. He's got a good deal of cheek, whoever he is--and he, and
his dinner, and his missing man may all go to the devil together! His
invitation is absurd!" And with this ultimatum Mr. Livingstone laid the
letter and envelope neatly together, preparatory to tearing them into
fragments.

But before this purpose was accomplished, another view of the situation
came into his mind. "I don't see why I shouldn't go," he thought. "I've
been muddling all day with this wretched wool man--which is a bore, even
if I have made a pretty good bargain with him for next season's clip;
and Ned hasn't come to time, which is another bore, for now I'll have to
eat my dinner alone. And this Dicky Smith writes like a gentleman, even
if he is cheeky; and he certa