“Vanilla,” requested Dave.

“Oh, fudge!” interposed their host.

“We haven’t any fudge ice cream, sir,” remarked the waitress without smiling.

“I cried fudge on their orders,” remarked Hibbert gayly.  “They are too modest.  Young woman, have you still some of those cantaloupes, which you cut open and fill with different flavors of cream and water ice?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Then, young gentlemen, permit me to change the order to one of those cantaloupes for each of you.”

The waitress departed on her errand, while Reade and Darrin glanced at each other, somewhat aghast.  The delicacy ordered by Mr. Hibbert cost a quarter of a dollar a portion.

When the orders were brought and placed on the table, Alonzo Hibbert draw from his pocket a roll of bills, stripping off the outermost and handing it to the waitress.  Yet their host gave no sign of attempting to make a vulgar display of his money.  He seemed rather unconscious of the possession of it.

“Are these favorites of yours?” inquired Mr. Hibbert presently of Greg, indicating the multi-colored load of ices, each resting in a half of a cantaloupe.

“Not exactly favorites,” Greg replied.  “We don’t often have the money to spend on such an expensive treat.”

“Don’t you?” inquired Hibbert in a tone of considerable surprise, as though wondering why everyone in the world wasn’t as well supplied with money as he himself was.

Then, after a pause, their host asked of Greg: 

“Would you like always to have plenty of money?”

“I suppose everyone would like that,” murmured young Holmes.

“Shall I make a prediction?” inquired Hibbert.

“By all means, if it pleases you,” Greg answered politely.

“Then, Greg Holmes, I venture to assert that you will very shortly find yourself a millionaire.”

This was said with so much earnestness, and apparent sincerity, that all five of the chums now regarded their host intently.

“How soon is that going to happen?” Greg laughingly inquired.

“Within a week,” Alonzo Hibbert replied as seriously as ever.  He glanced at Greg with a look full of friendly interest.

Tom Reade snorted, almost audibly, then drew down the corners of his mouth to keep himself from laughing outright.  Dave, too, took another swift look at their smiling young host.

“I wish you were a sure prophet,” murmured Greg trying hard not to laugh.

“I am,” declared Mr. Hibbert seriously.  “Mind what I tell you, Greg Holmes, within a week you will know yourself to be a millionaire.”

“Real money?” demanded Greg.

“Real money,” nodded Hibbert positively.  “Or else it will be in stocks, bonds or real estate that could be converted into real money.”

By this time, Tom, Dave and the others, Greg included, had taken Alonzo Hibbert’s measure or believed they had.  Their host, then, was a lunatic.  A harmless and very amiable lunatic, to be sure, yet none the less the victim of a deranged mind.