"Hoorah!" shouted Sloane, waltzing from one end of the room to the
other. "And we're off to Ab-yss-in-ia in the morn-ing," he sang.
"There's plenty in my money belt," he cried, slapping his sides, "you
can hear the ten-pound notes crackle whenever I breathe, and it's all
yours, my dear boy, and welcome. And I'll prove to you that the
Winchester is the better gun."

"All right," returned Stuart, gayly, "and I'll try to prove that the
Italians don't know how to govern a native state. But who is giving this
supper, anyway?" he demanded. "That is the main thing--that's what I
want to know."

"You've got to pack, haven't you?" suggested Rives.

"I'll pack when I get back," said Stuart, struggling into his greatcoat,
and searching in his pockets for his gloves. "Besides, my things are
always ready and there's plenty of time, the boat doesn't leave for six
hours yet."

"We'll all come back and help," said Weimer.

"Then I'll never get away," laughed Stuart. He was radiant, happy, and
excited, like a boy back from school for the holidays. But when they had
reached the pavement, he halted and ran his hand down into his pocket,
as though feeling for his latch-key, and stood looking doubtfully at his
friends.

"What is it now?" asked Rives, impatiently. "Have you forgotten
something?"