"It's like cutting straight down through a fruitcake," Fulkerson went on, "or a mince-pie, when you don't know who made the pie; you get a little of everything." He ordered a small flask of Chianti with the dinner, and it came in its pretty wicker jacket.

March smiled upon it with tender reminiscence, and Fulkerson laughed.

"Lights you up a little.

I brought old Dryfoos here one day, and he thought it was sweet-oil; that's the kind of bottle they used to have it in at the country drug-stores." "Yes, I remember now; but I'd totally forgotten it," said March.

"How far back that goes! Who's Dryfoos ?" "Dryfoos ?" Fulkerson, still smiling, tore off a piece of the half-yard of French loaf which had been supplied them, with two pale, thin disks of butter, and fed it into himself.