man. I'd 'a' made 'im a
Frenchy or a Dago or somethin' else if I could 'a' done it. Mr.
Singleton, I don't know no Goiman except pretzel, sauerkraut, wiener
wurst, and them kind o' woids."

"Those belong to the universal language, Dutch," I answered consolingly.
"What is your name, anyhow?"

"Augustus Schortemeier, and I say it ain't no worse'n Longfellow," he
protested.

The point was delicate and not one that I felt myself qualified to
discuss. To cover my confusion I suggested that poets enjoy a certain
license, but I was honestly sorry for Dutch. If he was not the oldest
living bell-hop, he was at least entitled to honorable mention among the
most ancient veterans of the calling, vocation, or avocation of the
bell-hopper. I bade him cheer up and passed on.

As I reached the house I heard a sharp command in an authoritative voice
and saw at a curve of the driveway a number of men in military formation
performing evolutions in the most sprightly manner. They carried
broomsticks, and at sight of me the commander brought his company to a
very ragged "Present arms!" Their uniform was that of the Tyringham
bell-hops and waiters, and it dawned upon me that this was an army of
protest representing the Allied armies on the shores of Connecticut.
There was a dozen of them, and the captain I recognized as Scotty, a hop
who had long worn the Tyringham livery. I waved my hand to them and
turned to find Antoine awaiting me at the door.

"It's the troops, sir," he explained. "It's to keep Dutch and Gretchen
and Elsie--she's the wife of that Flynn--in proper order, sir."

"Troops" was a large term for the awkward squad of retired waiters and
bell-hops, and it was with difficulty that I kept my face straight.

"It's most unfortunate, but we was forced to it. Dinner is served, sir."

From the table in the long dining-room I caught glimpses through the
gathering dusk of Scotty's battalion at its evolutions.

"They keep a guard all night, sir," Antoine explained, not without
pride. "The goings on has been most peculiar."

"Antoine!" I said sharply, "what do you mean by these hints of trouble
on the place? You're not silly enough to imagine that Dutch and a couple
of women can do anything out here to aid America's enemies! The rest of
you ought to be ashamed of yourselves for annoying them. And as for
these inquiries about Mrs. Bashford, they couldn't possibly have
anything to do with the war. Specifically, who are the person