"Son," says I, "you come with me and turn in. You'll feel better in the
morning. I don't know where I'll put you, unless it's the bowling alley,
but I guess that's your size. You oughtn't to get this way at your age."

He laughed a big, hearty laugh, same as I like to hear. "It's straight,"
he says. "I mean it. I want a job."

"But what for? You ain't short of cash?"

"You bet!" he says. "Strapped."

"Then," says I, "you come with me to-night and to-morrer morning you go
somewheres and sell them clothes you've got on. You'll make more out of
that than you will passing pie, if you passed it for a year."

He laughed again, but he said he was bound to be a waiter and if
I couldn't help him he'd have to hunt up the other portion of the
proprietor. So I told him to stay where he was, and I went off and found
Peter T. You'd ought to seen Peter stare when we hove in sight of the
candidate.

"Thunder!" says he. "Is this Exhibit One, Barzilla? Where'd you pick up
the Chinese giant?"

I done the polite, mentioning Brown's name, hesitating on t'other
chap's.

"Er-Jones," says the human lighthouse. "Er-yes; Jones."

"Glad to meet you, Mr. Jones," says Peter. "So you want to be a waiter,