“Good evening,” says I. “Looking for the hotel, was you?” He swung round, kind of lazy-like, and looked at me. Then I noticed how big he was. Seemed to me he was all of seven foot high and broad according. And rigged up--my soul! He had on a wide, felt hat, with a whirligig top onto it, and a light checked suit, and gloves, and slung more style than a barber on Sunday. If I'D wore them kind of duds they'd have had me down to Danvers, clanking chains and picking straws, but on this young chap they looked fine. “Good evening,” says the seven-footer, looking down and speaking to me cheerful. “Is this the Old Ladies' Home--the Old Home House, I should say?” “Yes, sir,” says I, looking up reverent at that hat. “Right,” he says. “Will you be good enough to tell me where I can find the proprietor?” “Well,” says I, “I'm him; that is, I'm one of him. But I'm afraid we can't accommodate you, mister, not now. We ain't got a room nowheres that ain't full.” He knocked the ashes off his cigarette. “I'm not looking for a room,” says he, “except as a side issue. I'm looking for a job.” “A job!” I sings out. “A JOB?” “Yes. I understand you employ college men as waiters. I'm from Harvard, and--” “A waiter?” I says, so astonished that I could hardly swaller. “Be you a waiter?” “_I_ don't know. I've been told so. Our coach used to say I was the best waiter on the team. At any rate I'll try the experiment.” Soon's ever I could gather myself together I reached across and took hold of his arm. “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, do you? For how much per?” “Oh, I don't know. I'll begin at the bottom, being a green hand. Twenty a week or so; whatever you're accustomed to paying.” Brown choked. “The figure's all right,” he says, “only it covers a month down here.”