No more valiant hero ever fought his way through the ranks of an enemy.  Turkey, chops, soups, vegetables, pies, disappeared before him as fast as they could be served.  Gorged nearly to the uttermost when he entered the restaurant, the smell of food had almost caused him to lose his honor as a gentleman, but he rallied like a true knight.  He saw the look of beneficent happiness on the Old Gentleman’s face—­a happier look than even the fuchsias and the ornithoptera amphrisius had ever brought to it—­and he had not the heart to see it wane.

In an hour Stuffy leaned back with a battle won.  “Thankee kindly, sir,” he puffed like a leaky steam pipe; “thankee kindly for a hearty meal.”  Then he arose heavily with glazed eyes and started toward the kitchen.  A waiter turned him about like a top, and pointed him toward the door.  The Old Gentleman carefully counted out $1.30 in silver change, leaving three nickels for the waiter.

They parted as they did each year at the door, the Old Gentleman going south, Stuffy north.

Around the first corner Stuffy turned, and stood for one minute.  Then he seemed to puff out his rags as an owl puffs out his feathers, and fell to the sidewalk like a sunstricken horse.

When the ambulance came the young surgeon and the driver cursed softly at his weight.  There was no smell of whiskey to justify a transfer to the patrol wagon, so Stuffy and his two dinners went to the hospital.  There they stretched him on a bed and began to test him for strange diseases, with the hope of getting a chance at some problem with the bare steel.

And lo! an hour later another ambulance brought the Old Gentleman.  And they laid him on another bed and spoke of appendicitis, for he looked good for the bill.

But pretty soon one of the young doctors met one of the young nurses whose eyes he liked, and stopped to chat with her about the cases.

“That nice old gentleman over there, now,” he said, “you wouldn’t think that was a case of almost starvation.  Proud old family, I guess.  He told me he hadn’t eaten a thing for three days.”

THE ASSESSOR OF SUCCESS

Hastings Beauchamp Morley sauntered across Union Square with a pitying look at the hundreds that lolled upon the park benches.  They were a motley lot, he thought; the men with stolid, animal, unshaven faces; the women wriggling and self-conscious, twining and untwining their feet that hung four inches above the gravelled walks.

Were I Mr. Carnegie or Mr. Rockefeller I would put a few millions in my inside pocket and make an appointment with all the Park Commissioners (around the corner, if necessary), and arrange for benches in all the parks of the world low enough for women to sit upon, and rest their feet upon the ground.  After that I might furnish libraries to towns that would pay for ’em, or build sanitariums for crank professors, and call ’em colleges, if I wanted to.