“Dining room closed,” said that individual shortly.

“What do you mean?”

“Dining room closes at two; supper at six.”

“Do you mean to say that you serve nothing between the hours of two and six?”

“Serve you a drink, if you like,” with an understanding grin at his questioner’s dusty knapsack.

Forgetting that he had become a Presbyterian, the doctor made a few remarks, and from his manner of making them the clerk awoke to the fact that knapsacks do not a hobo make nor dusty coats a tramp.  Now in Canada no one is the superior of any one else, but that did not make a bit of difference in the startling change of demeanour which overtook the clerk.  He straightened up.  He removed his toothpick.  He arranged the register in his best manner and chose another nib for his pen.  When Callandar had registered, the clerk was very sorry indeed that the hotel arrangements were rather arbitrary in the matter of meal hours.  He was afraid that the kitchen fires were down and everything cold.  Still if the gentleman would go to his room, he would see what could be done—­

The gentleman went to his room; but in no enviable frame of mind.  So wretched was his plight that he was not above valuing the covert sympathy of the small bell-boy who preceded him up the oilclothed stairs.  He was a very round boy:  round legs, round cheeks, round head and eyes so round that they must have been special eyes made on purpose.  There was also a haunting resemblance to some other boy!  Callandar taxed his memory, and there stole into it a vision of a pool with willows.  He chuckled.

“Boy,” he said, “have you a little brother who is very fond of going to school?”

“Nope,” said the boy. (It seemed to be a family word.) “I’ve got a brother, but he don’t sound like that.”

“You ought to be in school yourself, boy.  What’s your name?”

“Zerubbabel Burk.”

“Is that all?”

“Yep.  Bubble for short.”

“Have you ever known what it is to be hungry?”

“Three times a day, before meals!”

“Well, I’m starving.  Do you belong to the Boy Scouts?”

“Betyerlife.”

“Well, look here.  I am an army in distress.  Commissariat cut off, extinction imminent!  Now you go and bring in the provisions.  And, as we believe in honourable warfare, pay for everything you get, but take no refusals—­see?” He pressed a bill into the boy’s ready hand and watched the light of understanding leap into the round eyes with pleasurable anticipation.

“I get you, Mister!  Here’s your room, number fourteen.”

The boy disappeared while still the key with its long tin label was jingling in the lock.  The doctor opened the door of room number fourteen and went in.