locality, and not having eaten for some time, since breakfast, in fact, I—”      

       “Not since BREAKFAST? Didn't you have any dinner, for mercy sakes?”      

       “No, madam. Nor luncheon. Oh, it is quite all right, no one's fault but my own. Then, when I found the—the hotel closed, I—I sat down to rest and—and when I heard you call my name—”      

       “Wait a minute. What IS your name?”      

       “My name is Bangs, Galusha Bangs. It seems ridiculous now, as I tell it,       but I certainly thought I heard you or some one call me by the name my relatives and friends used to use. Of course—”      

       “Wait. What was that name?”      

       Even now, dizzy and faint as he was, Mr. Bangs squirmed upon the sofa.     

       “It was—well, it was Loosh—or—ah—Looshy” he admitted, guiltily.     

       His hostess' face broke into smiles. Her “comfortable” shoulders shook.     

       “Well, if that doesn't beat everything!” she exclaimed. “I was callin' my cat; his name is Lucy—Lucy Larcom; sometimes we call him 'Luce' for short.... Eh? Heavens and earth! Don't do THAT!”      

       But Galusha had already done it. The dervish dance in his head had culminated in one grand merry-go-round blotting out consciousness altogether, and he had sunk down upon the sofa.     

       The woman sprang from her chair, bent over him, felt his pulse, and loosened his collar.     

       “Primmie,” she called. “Primmie, come here this minute, I want you!”      

       There was the sound of scurrying feet, heavy feet, from the adjoining room, the door opened and a large, raw-boned female, of an age which might have been almost anything within the range of the late teens or early twenties, clumped in. She had a saucer in one hand and a dishcloth in the other.     

       “Yes'm,” she said, “here I be.” Then, seeing the prone figure upon the sofa, she exclaimed fervently, “Oh, my Lord of Isrul! Who's that?”      

       

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