glory. The landlady was beginning to lose her awe of the dress suit, the
booming barytone and the large aristocratic pink face of her mysterious
boarder. And she was pressing for back rent. But the club was still
tolerant.

"A soldier o' the legion lay dyin' in Algiers," chanted the captain, and
with his shoulders back he strode into the wide world. A meal at the club,
and gadzooks but his stomach was in arms! Not a bite since the last club
meal. God bless the club!

"Get a job?" repeated the captain to one of the members, "I would but the
devil take it, how can a man go around asking for a job in a dress suit?
And I'm so rotten big that none of my friends can loan me a suit. And my
credit is gone with at least twelve different tailors. I'm sort o' taboo
as a borrower. Barry, old top, if you will chase the blighter after
another highball, I'll drink your excellent health."

"There's a job if you want it that you can do in your dress suit," said
his friend Barry. "If you don't mind night work."

"Not at all," growled Capt. MacVeagh.

"Well," said the friend, "there's a circus in town and they want a man to
drive the chariot in the chariot race. It's only a little circus. And
there's only three chariots in the race. You get $10 for driving and $25 a
night if you win the race. And they give you a bloomin' toga to put on
over your suit, you know, and a ribbon to tie around your head. And there
you are."

"Righto !" cried the captain, "and where is this rendezvous of skill and