“Now, none of that, my man!” puts in Piddie, who’s as chicken hearted as he is peevish.  “Torchy, you—­you attend to him.”

“What’ll I do,” says I, “call in a plumber to stop the leak?”

“Find out who he is and what he wants,” says he, “and then pack him off.  I am very busy.”

“Well,” says I, turnin’ to the thick guy, “what’s the name?”

“Me?” says he.  “I—­I am Zandra Popokoulis.”

“Help!” says I.  “Popo—­here, write it on the pad.”  But even when he’s done that I can’t do more than make a wild stab at sayin’ it.  “Oh yes, thanks,” I goes on.  “Popover for short, eh?  Think Mr. Robert would recognise you by that?”

“Excuse, Sir,” says he, “but at the club he would speak to me as Mike.”

“Oh, at the club, eh?” says I.  “Say, I’m beginnin’ to get a glimmer.  Been workin’ at one of Mr. Robert’s clubs, have you?”

“I am his waiter for long time, Sir,” says Popover.

Course, the rest was simple.  He’d quit two or three months ago to take a trip back home, havin’ been promised by the head steward that he could have his place again any time inside of a year.  But imagine the base perfidy!  A second cousin of the meat chef has drifted in meanwhile, been set to work at Popover’s old tables, and the result is that when Mike reports to claim his job he gets the cold, heartless chuck.

“Why not rustle another, then?” says I.

You’d thought, though, to see the gloomy way he shakes his head, that this was the last chance he had left.  I gather too that club jobs are fairly well paid, steadier than most kinds of work, and harder to pick up.

“Also,” he adds, sort of shy, “there is Armina.”

“Oh, always!” says I.  “Bunch of millinery in the offing.  It never fails.  You’re her steady, eh?”

Popover smiles grateful and pours out details.  Armina was a fine girl, likewise rich—­oh, yes.  Her father had a flower jobbin’ business on West 28th-st.—­very grand.  For Armina he had ideas.  Any would-be son-in-law must be in business too.  Yet there was a way.  He would take in a partner with two hundred and fifty dollars cash.  And Mr. Popokoulis had saved up nearly that much when he’d got this fool notion of goin’ back home into his head.  Now here he was flat broke and carryin’ the banner.  It was not only a case of goin’ hungry, but of losin’ out on the fair Armina.  Hence the eye moisture.

“Yes, yes,” says I.  “But the weeps won’t help any.  And, even if Mr. Robert would listen to all this sad tale, it’s ten to one he wouldn’t butt in at the club.  I might get a chance to put it up to him, though.  Suppose you drop in to-morrow sometime, and I’ll let you know.”

“But I would wish,” says Popover, “to speak with——­”

“Ah, ditch it!” I breaks in weary.  “Say, you must have been takin’ militant lessons from Maud Malone.  Look here!  If you’re bound to stick around and take a long chance, camp there on the bench.  Mr. Robert’s busy inside, now; but if he should get through before lunch—­well, we’ll see.  But don’t go bankin’ on anything.”