It was not until the final roll had been devoured to its last crumb that
the guest found leisure to address his host. Then he leaned back with a
contented sigh.

"Mother," said the human python, "says you ought to chew every mouthful
thirty-three times...."

"Yes, sir! Thirty-three times!" He sighed again, "I haven't ever had
meal like that."

"All right, was it, what?"

"Was it! Was it! Call me up on the 'phone and ask me!-Yes, sir!-Mother's
tipped off these darned waiters not to serve-me anything but vegetables
and nuts and things, darn it!"

"The mater seems to have drastic ideas about the good old feed-bag,
what!"

"I'll say she has! Pop hates it as much as me, but he's scared to kick.
Mother says vegetables contain all the proteins you want. Mother says,
if you eat meat, your blood-pressure goes all blooey. Do you think it
does?"

"Mine seems pretty well in the pink."

"She's great on talking," conceded the boy. "She's out to-night
somewhere, giving a lecture on Rational Eating to some ginks. I'll
have to be slipping up to our suite before she gets back." He rose,
sluggishly. "That isn't a bit of roll under that napkin, is it?" he
asked, anxiously.

Archie raised the napkin.

"No. Nothing of that species."

"Oh, well!" said the boy, resignedly. "Then I believe I'll be going.
Thanks very much for the dinner."

"Not a bit, old top. Come again if you're ever trickling round in this
direction."

The long boy removed himself slowly, loath to leave. At the door he cast
an affectionate glance back at the table.

"Some meal!" he said, devoutly. "Considerable meal!"

Archie lit a cigarette. He felt like a Boy Scout who has done his day's
Act of Kindness.

On the following morning it chanced that Archie needed a fresh supply
of tobacco. It was his custom, when this happened, to repair to a small
shop on Sixth Avenue which he had discovered accidentally in the course
of his rambles about the great city. His relations with Jno. Blake, the
proprietor, were friendly and intimate. The discovery that Mr. Blake
was English and had, indeed, until a few years back maintained an
establishment only a dozen doors or so from Archie's London club, had
served as a bond.

To-day he found Mr. Blake in a depressed mood. The tobacconist was a
hearty, red-faced man, who looked like an English sporting publican--the
kind of man who wears a fawn-coloured top-coat and drives to the Derby
in a dog-cart; and usually there