munching while the banqueters lavished their approval and applause
on the music-makers. Calves' liver and bacon, with parsley sauce,
could hardly have figured more ignominiously in the evening's
entertainment. And while the master of culinary art leaned back
against the sheltering pillar, choking with a horrible brain-
searing rage that could find no outlet for its agony, the
orchestra leader was bowing his acknowledgments of the hand-
clappings that rose in a storm around him. Turning to his
colleagues he nodded the signal for an encore. But before the
violin had been lifted anew into position there came from the
shadow of the pillar an explosive negative.

"'Noh! Noh! You do not play thot again!'

"The musician turned in furious astonishment. Had he taken
warning from the look in the other man's eyes he might have acted
differently. But the admiring plaudits were ringing in his ears,
and he snarled out sharply, 'That is for me to decide.'

"'Noh! You play thot never again,' shouted the CHEF, and the next
moment he had flung himself violently upon the loathed being who
had supplanted him in the world's esteem. A large metal tureen,
filled to the brim with steaming soup, had just been placed on a
side table in readiness for a late party of diners; before the
waiting staff or the guests had time to realize what was
happening, Aristide had dragged his struggling victim up to the
table and plunged his head deep down into the almost boiling
contents of the tureen. At the further end of the room the diners
were still spasmodically applauding in view of an encore.