Lord! Mr.Hamlin, YOU oughter remember old man Delatour! From Opelousas, Louisiany, you know! High old sport French style, frilled bosom--open-handed, and us'ter buck ag'in' faro awful! Why, he dropped a heap o' money to YOU over in San Jose two years ago at poker! You must remember him!" The slightest possible flush passed over Mr.Hamlin's brow under the shadow of his hat, but did not get lower than his eyes.

He suddenly HAD recalled the spendthrift Delatour perfectly, and as quickly regretted now that he had not doubled the honorarium he had just sent to his portionless daughter.

But he only said, coolly, "No," and then, raising his pale face and audacious eyes, continued in his laziest and most insulting manner, "no: the fact is, my mind is just now preoccupied in wondering if the gas is leaking anywhere, and if anything is ever served over this bar except elegant conversation.

When the gentleman who mixes drinks comes back, perhaps you'll be good enough to tell him to send a whisky sour to Mr.Jack Hamlin in the parlor.

Meantime, you can turn off your soda fountain: I don't want any fizz in mine." Having thus quite recovered himself, Mr.Hamlin lounged gracefully across the hall into the parlor.