So they gave the old man a couple of bubbles, poking the brass rod through the keyhole of the door. The result was startling and unexpected. First there came a gasp from the other room, a sort of whistling release of the breath, and an instant later a high, whining, nasal voice. “Oh, God! God! Again! You meant it, then, God! You meant it!” The two young men started back and looked at each other in wonderment. There was such a quivering agony, such an utter groveling terror in this voice from the room beyond that they were daunted. “What's eating him?” asked Dobson, instinctively dropping his tones to a whisper. “I don't know,” said Tommy, temporarily subdued. “Sounds like that last one shell-shocked him when it exploded, doesn't it?” But Tommy was subdued only for a moment. As they went out into the corridor he giggled and remarked, “Told you he took 'em seriously, Jack.” II “Seriously” was a word scarcely strong enough for the way in which the old party in the room beyond had taken it, though he had not, in fact, seen the bubble. He had only seen a puff of smoke coming apparently from nowhere, originating in the air itself, as it seemed to him, manifesting itself, materializing itself out of nothing, and floating in front of the one eye which was peeping fearfully out of the huddled bedclothing which he had drawn over himself. He had lain quaking on the bed, waiting for this puff of smoke for an hour or more, hoping against hope that it would not come, praying and muttering, knotting his bony hands in the whiskers that Tommy had seen sticking up from the coverings, twisting convulsively. Tommy had whimsically filled the bubble, as he blew it, with smoke from his cigarette. He had in like manner, throughout the afternoon and early-evening, filled all the bubbles that he had given the old man with cigarette or pipe smoke. The old party had not been bowled over by anything in Tommy's tobacco. He had not noticed that the smoke was tobacco smoke, for he had been smoking a pipe himself the greater part of the day, and had not aired out the room. It was neither bubbles nor tobacco that had flicked a raw spot on his soul. It was smoke. III Bubbles! They seemed to be in Tommy's brain. Perhaps it was the association of ideas that made him think of champagne. At any rate he declared that he must have some, and vetoed his friend's suggestion that they dine--as they frequently did--at one of the little Italian table d'hote places in Greenwich Village. “You're a bubble and I'm a bubble and the world is a bubble,” Tommy was saying a little later as he watched the gas stirring in his golden drink. They had gone to the genial old Brevoort, which was--but why tell persons who missed the Brevoort in its mellower days what they missed, and why cause anguished yearnings in the bosoms of those who knew it well?