trash basket!

There was only one resort that Montague could think of, in a case so
perplexing. He sat down and wrote a note to his friend Major
Venable, at the Millionaires' Club, saying that he was coming there
to dinner, and would like to have the Major's company. And two or
three hours later, when sufficient time had elapsed for the Major to
have had his shave and his coffee and his morning newspaper, he rang
for a messenger and sent the note.

The Major's reply was prompt. He had no engagement, and his stores
of information and advice were at Montague's service. But his gout
was bad, and his temper atrocious, and Montague must be warned in
advance that his doctors permitted him neither mushrooms nor meat.

It always seemed to Montague that it could not be possible for a
human face to wear a brighter shade of purple than the Major's; yet
every time he met him, it seemed to him that the purple was a shade
brighter. And it spread farther with every step the Major took. He
growled and grumbled, and swore tremendous oaths under his breath,
and the way the headwaiter and all his assistants scurried about the
dining-room of the Club was a joy to the beholder.

Montague waited until the old gentleman had obtained his usual dry
Martini, and until he had solved the problem of satisfying his
appetite and his doctor. And then he told of his extraordinary
experience.

"I felt sure that you could explain it, if anybody could," said he.