' uneasy. She'd just
shoved my check at me for the third time, and was addin' a glass of
wooden tooth-picks, when I lets out this excited stage whisper.

"Sobowski!" says I, grabbin' the book.

The young lady in the frilled apron rests her thumbs on her hips
dignified and shoots me a haughty glance. "Ring off, young feller," says
she. "You got the wrong number."

"Not so, Clarice," says I. "His first name is Anton, and he used to run
a shine parlor in the arcade of the Corrugated buildin', New York, N. Y."

"It's a small world, ain't it?" says she. "You can pay me or at the
desk, just as you like."

Clarice got her tip all right, and loaned me her pencil to write down
Anton's street number.

A stocky, bow-legged son of Kosciuszko, built close to the ground, and
with a neck on him like a truck-horse, as I remembered Anton. But the
hottest kind of a sport. Used to run a pool on the ball-games, and made
a book on the ponies now and then. Always had a roll with him. He'd take
a nickel tip from me and then bet a guy in the next chair fifty to
thirty-five the Giants would score more'n three runs against the Cubs'
new pitcher in to-morrow's game. That kind.

Must have been two or three years back that Anton had told me about some
openin' he had to go in with a brother-in-law up in Bridgeport. Likely I
didn't pay much attention at the time. Anyway, he was missin' soon
after; and if I hadn't been in the habit of callin' him Old Sobstuff I'd
have forgotten that name of his entirely. But seein' it there in the
book brought back the whole thing.

"Anton Sobowski, saloon," was the way it was listed. So he was runnin' a
suds parlor, eh? Well, it wasn't likely he'd know much about labor
troubles, but it wouldn't do any harm to look him up. When I came to
trail down the street number, though, blamed if it ain't within half a
block of our branch works.

And, sure enough, in a little office beyond the bar, leanin' back
luxurious in a swivel-chair, and displayin' a pair of baby-blue armlets
over his shirt sleeves, I discovers Mr. Sobowski himself. It ain't any
brewery-staked hole-in-the-wall he's boss of, either. It's the Warsaw
Cafe, bar and restaurant, all glittery and gorgeous, with lace curtains
in the front windows, red, white, and blue mosquito nettin' draped
artistic over the frosted mirrors, and three busy mixers behind the
mahogany bar.

Anton has fleshed up considerable since he quit jugglin' the brushes,
and he's l