“Your face is very familiar,” said Theodolinda.  “Where have we seen you before?”

“I wondered if you’d recognize me,” said the bartender.  “I’ve shaved off my mustache.  I’m Jerry Purplevein.  When I was turned down in that election I thought this would be the next best thing.  As a matter of fact, it’s better.  I don’t really care for the stuff; I just like to see it around.  Miss Absinthe felt the same way.  She’s head stewardess up to the Hostess House.”

“It seems to me I used to see you somewhere in New York,” said Quimbleton.

“I was head bar at the Hotel Pennsylvania,” said Jerry.  “We had the finest bar in the world, had only been running a couple of months when prohibition come in.  They turned it into a soda fountain.  Ah, that was a tragedy!  But this is a grand job.  Government service, you see:  sure pay, tony surroundings, and what you might call steady custom.  Mr. Bleak is as nice a gentleman to mix ’em for as I ever see.”

“But what is this for?” asked Theodolinda, pointing to a beautiful marble cash register.  “Surely Mr. Bleak doesn’t have to buy his drinks?”

“No, ma’am,” said Jerry, “but he likes to have ’em rung up same as customary.  He says it makes it seem more natural.  Here he is now!”

Jerry flew to attention behind the three-foot bar, and they turned to see their friend enter through the bronze swinging doors.

“Well, well!” cried Bleak.  “This is a delightful surprise!”

He was dressed in a lounging suit of fine texture, and while he seemed a little thinner and paler, and his eyes a little weary, he was in excellent spirits.

“Come,” he said, “you’re just in time for a bite of lunch.  Jerry, what’s on the counter to-day?”

Jerry bustled proudly over to the free-lunch counter, whipped off the steam-covers, and disclosed a fragrant joint of corned beef nestling among cabbages and boiled potatoes.  With the delight of the true artist he seized a long narrow carving knife, gave it a few passes along a steel, and sliced off generous portions of the beef onto plates bearing the P. S. monogram.  This they supplemented with other selections from the liberally supplied free-lunch counter.  Soft, crumbling orange cheese, pickles, smoked sardines, chopped liver, olives, pretzels—­all the now-forgotten appetizers were laid out on broad silver platters.

“I wish I could offer you a drink,” said Bleak, “but as you know, it would be unconstitutional.  With your permission, I shall have to have something.  My office hours begin shortly, and some one might come in.”

He took up his station at the little bar behind the velvet cord, and slid his left foot onto the miniature rail.  Jerry, with the air of an artist about to resume work on his favorite masterpiece, stood expectant.

“A little Scotch, Jerry,” said Bleak.

In the manner reminiscent of an elder day Jerry wiped away imaginary moisture from the mahogany with a deft circular movement of a white cloth.  Turning to the gleaming pyramid of glassware, he set out the decanter of whiskey, a small empty glass, and a twin glass two-thirds full of water.  His motions were elaborately careless and automatic, but he was plainly bursting with joy to be undergoing such expert and affectionate scrutiny.