"Good evening," says the seven-footer, looking down and speaking to me
cheerful. "Is this the Old Ladies' Home--the Old Home House, I should
say?"

"Yes, sir," says I, looking up reverent at that hat.

"Right," he says. "Will you be good enough to tell me where I can find
the proprietor?"

"Well," says I, "I'm him; that is, I'm one of him. But I'm afraid we
can't accommodate you, mister, not now. We ain't got a room nowheres
that ain't full."

He knocked the ashes off his cigarette. "I'm not looking for a room,"
says he, "except as a side issue. I'm looking for a job."

"A job!" I sings out. "A JOB?"

"Yes. I understand you employ college men as waiters. I'm from Harvard,
and--"

"A waiter?" I says, so astonished that I could hardly swaller. "Be you a
waiter?"

"_I_ don't know. I've been told so. Our coach used to say I was the best
waiter on the team. At any rate I'll try the experiment."

Soon's ever I could gather myself together I reached across and took
hold of his arm.