[Illustration:  “Bring us a plain omelet and one dish of prunes.”]

“I waited till Peter Girofla translated this into French and then I added, ’And on the side, please, two glasses of water and three toothpicks.  Have the prunes fricasseed, wash the water on both corners, and bring the toothpicks rare.’

“The waiter rushed away and all around us we could hear money talking to itself.

“Fair women sat at the tables picking dishes out of the bill of fare which brought the blush of sorrow to the faces of their escorts.  It was a wonderful sight, especially for those who have a nervous chill every time the gas bill comes in.

“When we ate our modest little dinner the waiter presented a check which called for three dollars and thirty-three cents.

“‘The thirty-three cents is for what you ordered,’ Alexander J. Dumas explained, ’and the three dollars is for the French hangings in the parlor.’

“‘Holy Smoke!’ I cried; ’that fellow Looey the Fifteenth has been doing a lot of work around here hasn’t he?’ but the waiter was so busy watching the finish of the change he handed me that he didn’t crack a smile.

“Then I got reckless and handed him a fifty-cent tip.

“The waiter looked at the fifty cents and turned pale.

“Then he looked at me and turned paler.

“Then he tried to thank me, but he caught another flash of that plebeian fifty and it choked him.

“Then he took a long look at the half-dollar and with a low moan he passed away.

“In the excitement I grabbed Peaches and we flew for home.

“Say!  Bunch! the only time I’ll ever go in the St. Regis again will be just after a hearty dinner.”

“I guess you’re right, John, but what about this scheme to win out my wedding money?” Bunch queried.  “I’m dreadfully nervous about it.”

“I know.  Bunch, I know just how you feel.  I’m quite a bit to the St. Vitus myself, because if Clara J. ever gets wise that I’ve been speculating again after faithfully promising her to cut out all the guessing contests, she’s liable to say something unkind.  I simply must get that money back, Bunch, before she knows I lost it, and Signor Petroskinski is the name of our paying teller.  I tell you, Bunch, we can’t lose if we handle this cinch right, and I’ve got it all framed up.  It’s good for a thousand plunks apiece every week, so cut out the yesterday gag and think of a fat to-morrow.”

“I’d like to see this Petroskinski,” said Bunch.

“I’ll have him take luncheon with us to-morrow at the Hotel Astor—­twelve thirty.  Are you for me to the finish, Bunch?”

“If you think it’s all right I’ll trail,” said Bunch, and we shook hands.

“But not a word to the home folks,” I cautioned him.

CHAPTER II.

JOHN HENRY GETS A SUFFICIENCY.

Since Uncle Peter Grant was elected Mayor of Ruraldene one book ago, our family group considers it extremely disloyal to stay in the big town for more than four hours at a time.  So with us it is a case of catching those imitation railroad trains at all sorts of hours and commute to beat the band.