“But—­hut that’s only Mike,” says Mr. Robert, gazin’ from one to the other.  “Used to be a waiter at the club, you know.”

“I don’t care what he used to be,” says Skid, “or what he is now, I want to shake hands with him.”

Popover he pinks up and acts foolish about swappin’ grips; but Skid insists.

“So you beat ’em out in the end, did you?” Skid goes on.  “Just naturally put it all over that whole bunch of Turks, didn’t you?  But how did it happen?”

“I don’t know,” says Popover, fingerin’ his hat nervous.  “I am very busy all the time, and—­and I have nothing to eat all night.  You see, all other Greek soldiers was hurt; and me, I must stay to keep the Turks from the hill.  Very busy time, Sir.  And I am not much for fight, anyway.”

“Great Scott!” says Skid.  “He says he’s not much for—­but see here, how did it end?”

Popover gives a shoulder shrug.  “Once more they run at me after you go,” says he, “and then come our brave Greek General with big army and chase Turks away.  And the Captain say why am I such big fool as to stay behind.  That is all I know.  Three weeks ago I am discharged from being soldier.  Now I come back here, and I have no more my good job.  I am much sorry.”

“Think of that!” breaks out Skid.  “Talk about the ingratitude of Republics!  Why, England would have given him the Victoria Cross for that!  But can’t something or other be done about this job of his?”

“Why, certainly,” says Mr. Robert.  “Here, let’s go back into my office.”

“Hey, Popover,” says I, steerin’ him respectful through the gate.  “Don’t forget to tell them about Armina too.”

And as the three of ’em streams in, with the waiter in the middle, I turns to find Piddie gazin’ at the sight button-eyed.

“Wa’n’t you sayin’ how much you’d like to see the lone hero of the hill?” says I.  “Well, take a good look.  That’s him, the squatty one.  Uh-huh.  Mike, alias Popover, who quit bein’ a waiter to fight for his country, and after he’d licked all the Turks in sight comes pikin’ back here to hunt around for his tray again.  Say, all of ’em ain’t such scum, are they?”

It was a great old banquet too; for Skid insists that if they must have a conquerin’ hero to drink to Mr. Popokoulis is the only real thing in sight.  Mike wouldn’t stand for a seat at the table, though; so they compromised by havin’ him act as head waiter.  Skid tells the story just the same, and makes him stand out where they can all see him.  There was some cheerin’ done too.  Mr. Robert was tellin’ me about it only this mornin’.

“And you’ve got him his old place at the club, eh?” says I.

“No,” says he.  “I’ve arranged to buy out a half interest in a florist’s shop for Mr. Popokoulis.”

“Oh!” says I.  “Backin’ him for the Armina handicap, eh?  It ought to be a cinch.  Some chap, that Popover, even if he was a waiter, eh?  It’s tough on Piddie, though.  This thing has tied all his ideas in double bow-knots.”