They stood in front of the broad driveway which swept under lofty arches into the huge apartment house.  Strong stopped and gazed upwards mournfully.  “Right up there,” he murmured, pointing skywards—­“M’ fam’ly.”  The tears were streaming down his face frankly now.  “I can’t face ’em Recky, ’n this condition you’ve got me in,” he said more in sorrow than in anger.  At that second the last inspiration of the evening caught him.  Across the street arose the mighty pile of an enormous uptown hotel.  Strong jerked his thumb over his shoulder.  “Go’n’ break it to m’ fam’ly by telegraph’ ’em,” he stated, and bitterly Rex repented of that thoughtless mention of the Strongs to their son and heir.

Good-naturedly as he had done everything, but relentlessly, he dragged his victim over the way, and direct to the Western Union office of the hotel—­“Webster’s Union” he preferred to call it.  His first telegram read: 

“Rex Fairfax got me drunk.  Don’t blame him.  It’s natural to him.”

That one was confiscated, Strong complaining gently that his friend was all “fads.”

The second message was this: 

“Dear Mama:  Billy’s intoxicated.  Awfully sorry.  Couldn’t be helped.  Home soon.”

That one went in spite of Fairfax’s efforts, with two cents extra to pay, which item was the first event of the evening to ruffle Strong’s temper.

“Shame, shame on rich cap’talists like Webster’s Union to wring two cents from poor drunk chap, for lil’ word like ’soon’,” he growled, and appealed to the operator.  “Couldn’t you let me off that two cents?” he asked winningly.  “You’re good fellow—­good lookin’ fellow too”—­which was the truth.  “Well, then, can I get ’em cheaper ’f I sen ’em by quantity?  I’ll do that—­how many for dollar, hey?”

“Five,” said the grinning operator, troubled by the irregularity, but taken by this highly entertaining scheme of telegraphing across the street.  And Rex, his arts exhausted in vain, watched hopelessly while, one after another, five telegrams were sent to The Montana, a hundred feet away.  The first being short two of the regulation ten words.  Strong finished with a cabalistic phrase:  “Rectangular parallelopipedon.”

“That’ll get even Webster’s Union for chargin’ me two cents for ’soon’,” he chuckled.  “Don’t y’ wish y’ hadn’ charged me that two cents, hey?” he demanded of the operator, laughing joyfully and cocking his hat over one ear, and the operator and two or three men who stood near could do no otherwise than laugh joyfully too.  Strong straightened his face into a semblance of deep gravity.  “Thish next one’s important,” he announced, and put the end of the pencil in his mouth and meditated, while his fascinated audience watched him.  He was lost in thought for perhaps two minutes, and then scribbled madly, and as he ended the little bunch of men crowded frankly to look at what he had written.  He pushed it toward them with charming unreserve, and the bewilderment with which it was read seemed to please him.