went to Maxim's and listened to the fat quartette, then to the
place where the waiter held out a dollar. After the trouble at
that point, you tried to get into Tony's rathskeller and couldn't,
so you started for the East Side. Ringold was very drunk. Good!
Everything is clear so far. Next you were playing a piano with
yellow teeth while somebody sang something about a 'Little Brown
Cot.' After that--Lord, you must have been drinking! Well, let's
run through it again."

But his efforts were vain; he could recall nothing beyond the
piano, so fell to wondering what hotel this could be.

"Some East Side joint," he decided, "and a cheap one too, from the
size of this stall." He noted another brass bed close at hand and
reasoned that Ringold or Higgins must have risen early, leaving
him to finish his sleep. That was considerate, of course, but--
Good heavens, it must be late! And he was due to motor to New
Haven at noon! He raised himself suddenly, and was half out of bed
when he fell back, with a cry, as if an unseen hand had smitten
him. He clapped both palms to his head, realizing that he was very
sick indeed. The sensation was unlike anything he had ever felt
before. His head was splitting, he felt a frightful nausea, the
whole room was rocking and reeling as if to pitch him out of bed.
It was terrible; so he arose blindly and felt his way toward the
telephone. Failing to find it, he pushed a button instead, then
tumbled back to bed, reviling the luck that had brought him to
such a miserable place. He closed his eyes tightly and calmed his
stomach by an effort of will. At last he heard the door open and a
voice inquire: