But the great surprise of the evening, in which even Felix had had no share, was yet to come.  He had carried out his promise to provide the simple refreshments, and a table had been set apart for their serving.  The sandwiches made at the bakeshop a block below had already arrived and been put in place, and he was about to announce supper, when he became aware that a mysterious conference was being held near the top of the stairs, in which Kitty, Polly Codman, and Heffern’s daughter Mary, were taking part.  He had already noticed, with some discomfiture, the absence of a number of male guests, half of them having left the room without presenting themselves before Masie to bid her good night, and was about to ask Kitty for an explanation, when a series of thumping sounds reached his ear; something heavy was being rolled along the floor beneath his feet.  As the noise increased, Kitty and her beaming coconspirators craned their necks over the banisters and a welcoming roar went up.  Bundleton’s head now came into view, a wreath of smilax wound loosely around his neck, followed by one of his men carrying a keg of beer; another shouldering a sawhorse, a wooden mallet, and a wooden spigot; and still a third with a basket of stone mugs.

“Come, folks and neighbors, everybody have a glass of beer with me!” shouted Bundleton.

Up went the sawhorse before you would wink your eye!  Down went the keg across its arms, the smilax around it!  Bang went the bung!  In went the wooden spigot!  And out flew the white froth!

Another roar now went up, accompanied by great clapping of hands.  It was Codman’s head this time, a cook’s cap resting on his ears, his hands bearing a great dish athwart which lay a cold salmon that the baker had cooked for him that morning.  Close behind came Pestler with a tray filled with boxes of candy, and next Sanderson with a flattish basket piled high with carnations, each one tied as a boutonniere; and Porterfield with a bunch of bananas; and so on and so on—­each arrival being received with fresh roars and shouts of welcoming approval.  Last of all came Kitty, her face one great, pervading, all-embracing laugh, her own big coffee-pot filled to the brim and smoking hot on a waiter, her boy Bobby following, loaded down with cups and saucers.

Supper over—­and it was a mighty feast, with everybody waiting on everybody else, Kitty busiest of all, filling each cup herself—­Digwell the undertaker, who had really been the life of the party, remarked in a voice loud enough to be heard half-way across the room that it was a pity there was no piano, as a party could not be a real party without a dance.  At this Kling, who was having a mug with Codman, rose from his seat, stepped to the top of the stairs and, looking over the crowd, called for four strong men, “right avay, k’vick!” Codman, Pestler, Mike, and Digwell responded, and before anybody knew where they had gone, or what it was all about, up came an old-fashioned spinet, which Kling remembered had been hidden behind a Martha Washington bedstead on the floor below.