It was Higgins this evening who, after the “cripples” had deserted and the supper party had dwindled to perhaps a dozen, proposed to make a night of it.  It was always Higgins who proposed to make a night of it, and now, as usual, his words were greeted with enthusiasm.

Having obtained the floor, he gazed owlishly over the flushed faces around the table and said: 

“I wish to announce that, in our little journey to the underworld, we will visit some places of rare interest and educational value.  First we will go to the House of Seven Turnings.”

“No poetry, Hig!” some one cried.  “What is it?”

“It is merely a rendezvous of pickpockets and thieves, accessible only to a chosen few.  I feel sure you will enjoy yourselves there, for the bartender has the secret of a remarkable gin fizz, sweeter than a maiden’s smile, more intoxicating than a kiss.”

“Piffle!”

“It is a place where the student of sociology can obtain a world of valuable information.”

“How do we get in?”

“Leave that to old Doctor Higgins,” Anthony laughed.  “To get out is the difficulty.”

“Oh, I guess we’ll get out,” said the bulky Ringold.

“After we have concluded our investigations at the House of Seven Turnings,” continued the ceremonious Higgins, “we will go to the Palace of Ebony, where a full negro orchestra—­”

“The police closed that a week ago.”

“But it has reopened on a scale larger and grander than ever.”

“Let’s take in the Austrian Village,” offered Ringold.

“Patiently!  Patiently, Behemoth!  We’ll take ’em all in.  However, I wish to request one favor.  If by any chance I should become embroiled with a minion of the law, please, oh please, let me finish him.”

“Remember the last time,” cautioned Anthony.  “You’ve never come home a winner.”

“Enough!  Away with painful memories!  All in favor—­”

“Aye!” yelled the diners, whereupon a stampede ensued that caused the waiters in the main dining-room below to cease piling chairs upon the tables and hastily weight their napkins with salt-cellars.

But the crowd was not combative.  They poured out upon the street in the best possible humor, and even at the House of Seven Turnings, as Higgins had dubbed the “hide-away” on Thirty-second Street, they made no disturbance.  On the contrary, it was altogether too quiet for most of them, and they soon sought another scene.  But there were deserters en route to the Palace of Ebony, and when in turn the joys of a full negro orchestra had palled and a course was set for the Austrian Village, the number of investigators had dwindled to a choice half-dozen.

These, however, were kindred spirits, veterans of many a midnight escapade, composing a flying squadron of exactly the right proportions for the utmost efficiency and mobility combined.