remark what a wonderful true eye Cook has, ma'am; and her in liquor, at that." 

 "Oh, oh!" squeals Doris panicky. 

 "It began when I brought her the brandy for the pudding sauce, ma'am," goes on Cyril, real chatty.  "She'd had only one glass when she begins chucking me under the chin and calling me Dearie. Not that I ever gave her any cause, ma'am, to—" 

 "Please!" wails Doris.  "Harold! Stop him, can't you?" 

 And say, can you see Sappy Westlake stoppin' anything? Specially such a runnin' stream as this here now Cyril. But he comes to life for one faint effort. 

 "I say, you know," he starts in, "perhaps you'd best say no more about it, Snee." 

 "As you like, sir," says Cyril.  "Only, I don't wish my feelings considered. Not in the least. If you care to send back the salad I will gladly—" 

 Westy glances appealin' towards me. 

 "Torchy," says he, "couldn't you—" 

 Couldn't I, though! Say, I'd just been yearnin' to crash into this affair for the last five minutes. I'd remembered Cyril. At least, I thought I had. And I proceeds to rap for order with a table-knife. 

 "Excuse me, Mr. Snee," says I, "but you ain't been called on for a monologue. You can print the whole story of how kitchen neutrality was violated, issue a yellow book, if you like; but just for the minute try to forget that assault with the roast and see if you can remember ever havin' met me before. Can you?" 

 Don't seem to faze Cyril a bit. He takes a good look at me and then shakes his head. 

 "I'm sorry, sir," says he, "but I'm afraid I'm stupid about such things. I can sometimes recall names very readily, but faces—" 

 "How long since you quit jugglin' pies and sandwiches at the quick-lunch joint?" says I. 

 "Three months, sir," says he prompt. 

 "Tied the can to you, did they?" says I. 

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