nickel, and so've you."

"Wait a minute," insisted P. Sybarite, without moving. "I'm in earnest
about this. I offer you a seat in a stage-box at the Knickerbocker
Theatre to-night, to see Otis Skinner in 'Kismet.'"

George's eyes opened simultaneously with his mouth.

"Me?" he gasped. "Alone?"

P. Sybarite shook his head. "One of a party of four."

"Who else?" George demanded with pardonable caution.

"Miss Prim, Miss Leasing, myself."

Removing his apron of ticking, the shipping clerk opened a drawer in
his desk, took put a pair of cuffs, and begun to adjust them to the
wristbands of his shirt.

"Since when did you begin to snuff coke?" he enquired with mild
compassion.

"I'm not joking." P. Sybarite displayed the tickets. "A friend sent me
these. I'll make up the party for to-night as I said, and let you come
along--on one condition."

"Go to it."

"You must promise me to quit calling me Perceval, here or any place
else, to-day and forever!"

George chuckled; paused; frowned; regarded P. Sybarite with narrow
suspicion.

"And never tell anybody, either," added the other, in deadly earnest.

George hesitated.

"Well, it's your _name_, ain't it?" he grumbled.

"That's not my fault. I'll be damned if I'll be called Perceval."

"And what if I keep on?"

"Then I'll make up my theatre party without you--and break your neck
into the bargain," said P. Sybarite intensely.

"You?" George laughed derisively. "You break _my_ neck? Can the
comedy, beau. Why, I could eat you alive, Perceval."

P. Sybarite got down from his stool. His face was almost colourless,
but for two bright red spots, the size of quarters, beneath either
cheek-bone. He was half a head shorter than the shipping clerk, and
apparently about half as wide; but there was sincerity in his manner
and an ominous snap in the unflinching stare of his blue eyes.

"Please yourself," he said quietly. "Only--don't say I didn't warn
you!"

"Ah-h!" sneered George, truculent in his amazement. "What's eatin'
you?"

"We're going to settle this question before you leave this warehouse.
I won't be called Perceval by you or any other pink-eared cross
between Balaam's ass and a laughing hyena."

Mr. Bross gaped with resentment, which gradually overcame his better
judgment.

"You won't, eh?" he said stridently. "I'd like to know what you're
going to do to stop me, Perce--"

P. Sybarite stepped quickly toward him and George, with a growl, threw
out