For just as Mallory moped into the smoking-room at one door, Ira Lathrop swept in at the other, his face rubicund with embarrassment and ecstasy. He had donned an old frock coat with creases like ruts from long exile in his trunk. But he was feeling like an heir apparent; and he startled everybody by his jovial hail: "Well, boys--er--gentlemen--the drinks are on me. Waiter, take the orders." Little Jimmie woke with a start, rose hastily to his feet and saluted, saying: "Present! Who said take the orders?" "I did," said Lathrop, "I'm giving a party. Waiter, take the orders." "Sarsaparilla," said Dr. Temple, but they howled him down and ordered other things. The porter shook his head sadly: "Nothin' but sof' drinks in Utah, gemmen." A groan went up from the club-members, and Lathrop groaned loudest of all: "Well, we've got to drink something. Take the orders. We'll all have sarsaparilla." Little Jimmie Wellington came to the rescue. "Don't do anything desperate, gentlemen," he said, with a look of divine philanthropy. "The bar's closed, but Little Jimmie Wellington is here with the life preserver." From his hip-pocket he produced a silver flask that looked to be big enough to carry a regiment through the Alps. It was greeted with a salvo, and Lathrop said to Jimmie: "I apologize for everything I have said--and thought--about you." He turned to the porter: "There ain't any law against giving this away, is there?" The porter grinned: "Not if you-all bribe the exercise-inspector." And he held out a glass for the bribe, murmuring, "Don't git tired," as it was poured. He set it inside his sanctum and then bustled round with ice-filled glasses and a siphon. When Little Jimmie offered of the flask to Dr. Temple, the clergyman put out his hand with a politely horrified: "No, thank you." Lathrop frightened him with a sudden comment: "Look at that gesture! Doc, I'd almost swear you were a parson." Mallory whirled on him with the eyes of a hawk about to pounce, and "The very idea!" was the best disclaimer Dr. Temple could manage, suddenly finding himself suspected. Ashton put in with, "The only way to disprove it, Doc, is to join us." The poor old clergyman, too deeply involved in his deception to brave confession now, decided to do and dare all. He stammered, "Er--ah--certainly," and held out his hand for his share of the poison. Little Jimmie winked at the others and almost filled the glass. The innocent doctor bowed his thanks. When the porter reached him and prepared to fill the remainder of the glass from the siphon, the parson waved him aside with a misguided caution: "No, thanks. I'll not mix them." Mallory turned away with a sigh: "He takes his straight. He's no parson." Then they forgot the doctor in curiosity as to Lathrop's sudden spasm of generosity--with Wellington's liquor. Wedgewood voiced the general curiosity when he said: "What's the old woman-hater up to now?"