"That," said Emma McChesney, "would be Ed Meyers, of the Strauss Sans-
silk Skirt Company."

"None other than our hero." Jock's tone had an added acidity. "It took
those four about two minutes to get acquainted. In three minutes they
had told their real names, and it turned out that Meyers belonged to
an organization that was a second cousin of the Bisons. In five
minutes they had got together a deck and a pile of chips and were
shirt-sleeving it around a game of pinochle. I would doze off to the
slap of cards, and the click of chips, and wake up when the bell-boy
came in with another round, which he did every six minutes. When I got
up this morning I found that Fat Ed Meyers had been sitting on the
chair over which I trustingly had draped my trousers. This sunburst of
wrinkles is where he mostly sat. This spot on my coat is where a Bison
drank his beer."

Emma McChesney folded her paper and rose, smiling. "It is sort of
trying, I suppose, if you're not used to it."

"Used to it!" shouted the outraged Jock. "Used to it! Do you mean to
tell me there's nothing unusual about--"

"Not a thing. Oh, of course you don't strike a bunch of Bisons every
day. But it happens a good many times. The world is full of Ancient
Orders and they're everlastingly getting together and drawing up
resolutions and electing officers. Don't you think you'd better go in
to breakfast before the Bisons begin to forage? I've had mine."

The gloom which had overspread Jock McChesney's face lifted a little.
The hungry boy in him was uppermost. "That's so. I'm going to have