At any rate, Aubrey woke that Saturday morning, about the time Titania began to dust the pavement-boxes, in no very world-conquering humour.  As it was a half-holiday, he felt no compunction in staying away from the office.  The landlady, a motherly soul, sent him up some coffee and scrambled eggs, and insisted on having a doctor in to look at his damage.  Several stitches were taken, after which he had a nap.  He woke up at noon, feeling better, though his head still ached abominably.  Putting on a dressing gown, he sat down in his modest chamber, which was furnished chiefly with a pipe-rack, ash trays, and a set of O. Henry, and picked up one of his favourite volumes for a bit of solace.  We have hinted that Mr. Gilbert was not what is called “literary.”  His reading was mostly of the newsstand sort, and Printer’s Ink, that naive journal of the publicity professions.  His favourite diversion was luncheon at the Advertising Club where he would pore, fascinated, over displays of advertising booklets, posters, and pamphlets with such titles as Tell Your Story in Bold-Face.  He was accustomed to remark that “the fellow who writes the Packard ads has Ralph Waldo Emerson skinned three ways from the Jack.”  Yet much must be forgiven this young man for his love of O. Henry.  He knew, what many other happy souls have found, that O. Henry is one of those rare and gifted tellers of tales who can be read at all times.  No matter how weary, how depressed, how shaken in morale, one can always find enjoyment in that master romancer of the Cabarabian Nights.  “Don’t talk to me of Dickens’ Christmas Stories,” Aubrey said to himself, recalling his adventure in Brooklyn.  “I’ll bet O. Henry’s Gift of the Magi beats anything Dick ever laid pen to.  What a shame he died without finishing that Christmas story in Rolling Stones!  I wish some boss writer like Irvin Cobb or Edna Ferber would take a hand at finishing it.  If I were an editor I’d hire someone to wind up that yarn.  It’s a crime to have a good story like that lying around half written.”

He was sitting in a soft wreath of cigarette smoke when his landlady came in with the morning paper.

“Thought you might like to see the Times, Mr. Gilbert,” she said.  “I knew you’d been too sick to go out and buy one.  I see the President’s going to sail on Wednesday.”

Aubrey threaded his way through the news with the practiced eye of one who knows what interests him.  Then, by force of habit, he carefully scanned the advertising pages.  A notice in the help wanted columns leaped out at him.

Wanted—­For temporary employment at Hotel Octagon, 3 chefs, 5 experienced cooks, 20 waiters.  Apply chef’s office, 11 P.M.  Tuesday.

“Hum,” he thought.  “I suppose, to take the place of those fellows who are going to sail on the George Washington to cook for Mr. Wilson.  That’s a grand ad for the Octagon, having their kitchen staff chosen for the President’s trip.  Gee, I wonder why they don’t play that up in some real space?  Maybe I can place some copy for them along that line.”