The last one, however, had smashed a seven-thousand dollar vase over by the window and Mr. Depew was hesitating. He had some doubt whether, after all, his jokes were worth that much commercially. His fellow members continued to ecstatically admire their isolation from the grimy vandals of the world. The soft breathing of the happy company made a sound like the murmur of pines in a summer wind. In the distance, a steward could be seen charging up seven thousand dollars to Mr. Depew’s account; all, otherwise, was joy and perfect peace.

At this juncture, a seventeen-cent lackey upholstered in a three hundred dollar suit of clothes, made his appearance. He skated gracefully over the polished floor on snowshoes. Halting in the centre of the room, he made seven low bows and sang a little ode to Plutus.^at Then he made a swift gesture, a ceremonial declaration that he was lower than the mud on the gaiters of the least wealthy of those before him, and spoke: “Sirs, there is a deputation of visitors in the hall who give their names as Ralph Waldo Emerson, Nathaniel Hawthorne, George Washington and Alexander Hamilton. They beg the favor of an audience.”

A slumbering member in a large arm chair aroused and said: “Who?” And this pertinent interrogation was followed by others in various tones of astonishment and annoyance. “What’s their names?” “Who did you say?” “What the devil do they want here?”

The lackey made seven more bows and sang another little ode. Then he spoke very distinctly: “Sirs, persons giving their names as Ralph Waldo Emerson, Nathaniel Hawthorne, George Washington and Alexander Hamilton desire the favor of an audience. They—”

But he was interrupted. “Don’t know’ em!” “Who the deuce are these people anyhow!” “By Jove, here’s a go! Want to see us, deuce take me!” “Well, I’m—”

It was at this point that Erroll Van Dyck Strathmore suddenly displayed those qualities which made his friends ever afterward look upon him as a man who would rise supreme at a crisis. He asked one question, but it was terse, sharp, and skillful, a master-piece of a man with presence of mind:

“Where are they from?”

“Sir,” said the lackey, “they said they were from America!”

Strathmore paused but a moment to formulate his second searching question. His friends looked at him with admiration and awe. “Do they look like respectable people?”

The lackey arched his eyebrows. “Well—I don’t know, sir.” He was very discreet.

This reply created great consternation among the members. There was a wild scramble for places of safety. There were hurried commands given to the lackey. “Don’t bring ‘em in here!” “Throw ’ em out!” “Kill ’em!” But over all the uproar could be heard the voice of the imperturbably Strathmore. He was calmly giving orders to the servant.

“You will tell them that as we know no one in America, it is not possible that we have had the honor of their acquaintance, but that nevertheless it is our pleasure to indulge them a little, as it is possible that they are respectable people. However, they must not construe this into permission to come again. You will say to them that if they will repair quietly to any convenient place, wash their hands and procure rubber bibs, they may return and look at the remains of a cigarette which I carelessly threw upon the door-step. Tell the steward to provide each man with a recipe for Mr. Jones-Jones Smith-Jones’ terrapin stew and a gallery ticket for the Kilanyi living pictures, then bid them go in safety. Afterward, you will sponge off the front steps and give the door-mat to one of those down-town clubs. You may go.”

As the servant skated forth on his errand, Mr. Whitney fell in a death-like swoon, unnoticed, as the company thronged about the adroit, the brave Erroll Van Dyck Strathmore. “Bravo, old man, you saved us!” “What skill, what diplomacy!” “Egad, but you have courage!”

Suddenly the clock noted the time of ten minutes after twelve. Mr. Depew sprang to his feet. A broad smile illuminated his face.

“Say, fellows, the other day—” But he was surrounded by slumbering figures. His smile changed then to a glare of bitter disappointment. In a burst of rage he hurled a champagne bottle at the clock and broke it to smithereens. Its cost was $4,675. He strode over to the ex-secretary. When Mr. Whitney had become aroused, the following conversation ensued:

“Say, Willie, what are we doing here?”

“I don’t know, Chauncey!”

“Well, let’s float,^au then!”

“Float it is, Chauncey!”

On the sidewalk they turned to regard each other.

“An antidote, Willie?”

“Well, I should say, Chauncey!”

They started on a hard run down the avenue.