in' I'd clean forgot all about Twiggle; when Pinckney
'phones he'd be obliged if I could step around to a Broadway hotel
right off, as he's in trouble.

Pinckney meets me just inside the plate glass merry go round.
"Something is the matter with Sir Hunter," says he, "and I can't find
out from his fool man what it is."

"Before we gets any deeper let's clear the ground," says I. "When you
left him, was he soused, or only damp around the edges?"

"Oh, it's not that at all," says Pinckney. "Sir Hunter is a
gentleman--er, with a wonderful capacity."

"The Hippodrome tank's got that too," I says; "but there's enough fancy
drinks mixed on Broadway every afternoon to run it over."

Sir Hunter has a set of rooms on the 'leventh floor. He wa'n't in
sight, but we digs up Rinkey. By the looks, he'd just escaped from the
chorus of a musical comedy, or else an Italian bakery. Near as I could
make out he didn't have any proper clothes on at all, but was just done
up in white buntin' that was wrapped and draped around him, like a
parlour lamp on movin' day. The spots of him that you could see,
around the back of his neck and the soles of his feet, was the colour
of a twenty-cent maduro cigar. He was spread out on the rug with his
heels toward us and his head on the sill of the door leadin' into the
next room.

"Back up, Pinckney!" says I. "This must be a coloured prayer meetin'
we're buttin' into."

"No, it's all right," says Pinckney. "That is Sir Hunter's man, Ringhi
Singh."

"Sounds like a coon song," says I. "But he's no valet. He's a cook;
can't you see by the cap?"

"That's a turban," says Pinckney. "Sir Hunter brought Ringhi from
India, and he wears his native costume."

"Gee!" says I. "If that's his reg'lar get up, he's got Mark Twain's
Phoebe Snow outfit beat a mile. But does Rinkey always rest on his
face when he sits down?"

"It's that position which puzzles me," says Pinckney. "All I could get
out of him was that Sahib Twiggle was in bed, and wouldn't see anyone."

"Oh, then the heathen is wise to United States talk, is he?" says I.

"He understands English, of course," says Pinckney, "but he declines to
talk."

"That's easy fixed," says I, reachin' out and grabbin' Rinkey by the
slack of his bloomers. "Maybe his conversation works is out of kink,"
and I up ends Rinkey into a chair.

"Be careful!" Pinckney sings out. "They're treachous chaps."

I had my eye peeled for cutlery, but he w