queen's taste. John L. Sullivan, the pugilist, was at one end of
the glittering bar, surrounded by a company of loudly dressed
sports, who were holding a most animated conversation. Drouet
came across the floor with a festive stride, a new pair of tan
shoes squeaking audibly at his progress.

"Well, sir," said Hurstwood, "I was wondering what had become of
you. I thought you had gone out of town again."

Drouet laughed.

"If you don't report more regularly we'll have to cut you off the
list."

"Couldn't help it," said the drummer, "I've been busy."

They strolled over toward the bar amid the noisy, shifting
company of notables. The dressy manager was shaken by the hand
three times in as many minutes.

"I hear your lodge is going to give a performance," observed
Hurstwood, in the most offhand manner.

"Yes, who told you?"

"No one," said Hurstwood. "They just sent me a couple of
tickets, which I can have for two dollars. Is it going to be any
good?"

"I don't know," replied the drummer. "They've been trying to get