“Hello, old pop Grimsby!”

“You’re in the dark of the moon, Grimmie!  I couldn’t make you out but for those horn rimmed head lights.”

“Welcome to the joy-parlor, old scout.”

The greetings of the juvenile buzzards varied only in phraseology:  their portent was identical:  “Open wine.”

“Poor Mr Grimsby is so ill this afternoon, but sit down and have something with us,” volunteered Helene tremulously.

The bees gathered about the table to feast on the vinous honey, while Shirley, mumbling a few words, maintained his partial obscurity, with one hand to his forehead.

“Fine boysh, m’deah.  Boysh, meet little Bonbon—­my protashsh!”

Little Bonbon was a pronounced attraction.  Her vivacious charm drew the eyes away from Shirley, who studied the expressions of the weasel faces about him.  The girl’s heart sickened under the brutal frankness of a dozen calculating eyes, yet she valiantly maintained her part, while Shirley marveled at her clever simulation of silly, giggly, semi-intoxication.  One youth deserted them to disappear through the distant dining room entrance.  The comments about the table were interesting to the keen-eared masquerader.

“Old Grimsby’s picked a live one, this time!”—­“What show is she with?”—­“Won’t Pinkie be sore?” The criminologist was not left to wonder as to the identity of “Pinkie,” for an older man, walking behind a red-headed girl in a luridly modern gown, approached the table with the absent guest.  The men were talking earnestly, the girl staring angrily at Shirley’s, beautiful companion.

“Hey, here come’s Reggie!  Sit down, Reg.  Pop has passed away, but his credit is still strong.”

“There’s Pinkie—­come, my dear, and join the Ladies’ Aid Society and have a lemonade,” jested another youth, making a place for the girl in the aisle.

Pinkie’s dark-haired companion sank somewhat unsteadily into a chair next the girl.  He frowned and rubbed his forehead, as though to clear his mind for needed concentration.  He shook Shirley’s arm, and spoke sharply.

“Look up; Grimmie.  I never saw you feel your wine so early in the afternoon.  It was a lucky day for me on Wall Street, so I celebrated myself.  You are here earlier than usual.  Everybody have some champagne with me.”

As he beckoned to the waiter, the red-haired girl bestowed a murderous look upon Helene, who was sniffing some flowers which she had drawn from the vase on the table.

“Who’s that Jane?” she demanded, her voice-shaking with jealousy.  “Grimmie, you act as if you were doped.  Introduce us to your swell friend.  Wake him, Reg Warren.”

Helene’s jeweled white hand protected the safety-first dozing of her companion, as, through the interstices of his fingers, he studied the inscrutable difference between the face of Warren and the other youths about them.

“Let Pop dream of a new way to make a million!” laughed one young man.  “His money grows while he sleeps.”