appeared upon the stage and burst into metallic shrieks, supported by the musical spasm of the orchestra. E. Van Tenner essayed to forget his sufferings in contemplation of the menu--and got a fresh shock. 

He had seen prices before, but never such prices as these. Even without the magic purse he was sure that they would have given him pause. As for the purse, he did not dare bring it out in sight of that array of figures. Something light, a bit of fish and some stuffed green peppers, he had thought to order. 

The fish were evidently goldfish; solid gold at that. As for the peppers, his eyes encountered this legend:Green peppers (1) stuffed with rice and tomato--80 cents. 

At first he thought it a misprint; it must be thirty cents; or possibly fifty. Consideration of the other vegetables dispelled that hope. They were on an equal scale. But--eighty cents for one green pepper! Was there, then, a fatal shortage in the green-pepper market? Or a crop failure in the rice or tomatoes whereof the stuffing was compounded? 

“Cut it short! Be a sport! Buy a quart!” shrieked the songsters, coyly adjusting their shoulder straps. Enlightenment burst upon E. Van Tenner. The prices of the menu, suggesting the daily stock market report before the depression, became clear. Somehow that awful vocality and the hardly less agonizing accompaniment had to be paid for. His green pepper at eighty cents was to pay for it. It was stuffed, that green pepper, not with rice and tomato but with ragtime jazzeries and syncopated shrieks. 

E. Van Tenner laid the menu on the table and would have risen and escaped, but there hovered over him, portentous and awful, the head waiter himself. “You haf ordered?” he inquired. “I--that is--no; I think I won’t order this evening,” quavered the patron. “There is a table charge of one dollar,” said the official severely. E. Van Tenner, overawed, reached for the beggar’s purse. It flatly refused to open. As the owner strove with it there was instilled into his veins a calm and chill determination, born of a discovery that he had made--or had the purse magically indicated it?--regarding the menu. 

“I shall not pay it,” he said quietly. “You shouldt haf to pay it.” The head waiter’s threatening tone took on a little more pronounced accent. “You’re a German, aren’t you?” inquired E. Van Tenner blandly. “Dot is my bisaness,” retorted the other excitedly. “You pay dot table charge!” “No; I shall not pay the table charge. But I will do this: I will pay you 

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