“I should like to give him some!” said the stricken Mr. Brewster.  He breathed a deep breath.  “Oh, well,” he said, “situated as I am, with a crook valet and an imbecile son-in-law, I suppose I ought to be thankful that I’ve still got my own property, even if I have had to pay twenty-three hundred dollars for the privilege of keeping it.”  He rounded on Archie, who was in a reverie.  The thought of the unfortunate Bill had just crossed Archie’s mind.  It would be many moons, many weary moons, before Mr. Brewster would be in a suitable mood to listen sympathetically to the story of love’s young dream.  “Give me that figure!”

Archie continued to toy absently with Pongo.  He was wondering now how best to break this sad occurrence to Lucille.  It would be a disappointment for the poor girl.

“Give me that figure!”

Archie started violently.  There was an instant in which Pongo seemed to hang suspended, like Mohammed’s coffin, between heaven and earth, then the force of gravity asserted itself.  Pongo fell with a sharp crack and disintegrated.  And as it did so there was a knock at the door, and in walked a dark, furtive person, who to the inflamed vision of Mr. Daniel Brewster looked like something connected with the executive staff of the Black Hand.  With all time at his disposal, the unfortunate Salvatore had selected this moment for stating his case.

“Get out!” bellowed Mr. Brewster.  “I didn’t ring for a waiter.”

Archie, his mind reeling beneath the catastrophe, recovered himself sufficiently to do the honours.  It was at his instigation that Salvatore was there, and, greatly as he wished that he could have seen fit to choose a more auspicious moment for his business chat, he felt compelled to do his best to see him through.

“Oh, I say, half a second,” he said.  “You don’t quite understand.  As a matter of fact, this chappie is by way of being downtrodden and oppressed and what not, and I suggested that he should get hold of you and speak a few well-chosen words.  Of course, if you’d rather—­ some other time—­”

But Mr. Brewster was not permitted to postpone the interview.  Before he could get his breath, Salvatore had begun to talk.  He was a strong, ambidextrous talker, whom it was hard to interrupt; and it was not for some moments that Mr. Brewster succeeded in getting a word in.  When he did, he spoke to the point.  Though not a linguist, he had been able to follow the discourse closely enough to realise that the waiter was dissatisfied with conditions in his hotel; and Mr. Brewster, as has been indicated, had a short way with people who criticised the Cosmopolis.

“You’re fired!” said Mr. Brewster.

“Oh, I say!” protested Archie.

Salvatore muttered what sounded like a passage from Dante.

“Fired!” repeated Mr. Brewster resolutely.  “And I wish to heaven,” he added, eyeing his son-in-law malignantly, “I could fire you!”