Though by no means squeamish, on the testimony of his nose and ears P. Sybarite then and there concluded that he would have to have become exceedingly blase indeed to find Dutch House amusing.

And when he had gone on into the restaurant itself, slipping his modest person inconspicuously into a chair at the nearest unoccupied table, the testimony of his other senses as to the character of his company served to confirm this impression.

“It’s no use,” he sighed:  “I’m too old a dog....  Be it ever so typical, there’s no place like one’s own hash-foundry.” ...

This room was broad and deep, and boasted, at its far end, a miniature stage supporting the orchestra and, temporarily, the gyrations of a lady in a vivacious scarlet costume—­mistress of the shopworn contralto—­who was “vamping with the feet” the interval between two verses of her ballad.

The main floor was strewn with tables round which sat a motley gathering of gangsters, fools, pretty iniquities and others by no stretch of the imagination to be termed pretty, confidence men, gambling touts, and the sprinkling of drunkards—­plain, common, transient, periodical, suburban, habitual, and unconscious—­for and by whom the place was, and is, maintained.  In and out among these circulated several able-bodied waiters with soiled shirt-bosoms, iron jaws and, not infrequently, cauliflower ears.

Spying out P. Sybarite, one of these bore down upon him with an air of the most flattering camaraderie.

It was true that the little man, in a dark coat and hat alike too large for him, with his shabby shoes and trousers and apologetic demeanour, promised no very profitable plucking; but the rule of Dutch House is to neglect none, however lowly.

“Well, bo’,” grunted the waiter cheerfully, polishing off the top of the table with a saturated towel, “yuh don’t come round’s often as y’ uster.”

“That’s a fact,” P. Sybarite agreed.  “I’ve been a long time away—­haven’t I?”

“Yuh said somethin’ then.  Mus’ be months sinst I seen yuh last.  What’s the trouble?  Y’ ain’t soured on the old joint, huh?”

“No,” P. Sybarite apologised.  “I’ve been—­away.  Where’s Red?”

“MacManus—?” asked the waiter, beginning to believe that this strange little creature must in fact be a “regular” of the “bunch”—­one whose name and face had somehow, unaccountably, slipped from his memory.

“November,” P. Sybarite corrected.

“Oh, he’s stickin’ round—­pretty busy to-night.  Wouldn’t fuss him, ’f I was yuh, ‘less it’s somethin’ extra.”

“I make you,” said the little man.  “But this is his business.  Tell him I have a message for him, will you?”

“Just as yuh say, bo’,” returned the other cautiously.  “What’s it goin’ to be?  Bucket of grape or a tub of suds?”

“Do I look like the foolish waters?” enquired P. Sybarite with mild resentment.  “Back me up a shell of lather.”