“After dat, you kin bet I wasn’t no mollycoddle. I could aviate without gettin’ cold feet. Me dad, he was a wise guy, all right. Now what else d’ yuh want to know?” “I’d like to know your plans for the immediate future, Mr. Griffin. Will you be making any more aeroplane exhibitions?—With the, uh, the, uh—” “Don’t let it choke you. Be an orful shame to lose a smart young feller like you.” “You know what I mean. Oh, of course—the tehedrum?” “Say, you willy-boy, wot d’ yuh t’ink? T’ink I’m going to rent you me plans, furnished? I’m going to do wot I’m going to do, that’s what, see? That SWAT! Ketch the idee? You’d be a smart young man if your feet’d track. Just put that down in your paper, will yuh?” Peeking from under the bed, Hike saw the reporter rise, looking very angry. But the bell-boy was continuing, “And be sure and spell me name right—with a ‘x,’ y’know. Say, I don’ mind telling you I’m thinking of setting me tehedrum to fighting with a battleship.” As the reporter prepared for a crushing reply, the real Mr. Hike Griffin, somewhat dusty, but highly dignified in his bath robe, crawled from under the bed, and said, “Say, I’m awf’ly sorry I let this joke go so far. I’m Griffin. This is a hotel bell-boy. I felt tired, and didn’t want to talk, and I thought maybe— Anyway, I apologize. I’ll see if I can give you a real interview if you’ll wait for me down in the lobby—I’ll see about it after breakfast. Really, I’m awf’ly sorry, old man.” “Oh, _that’s_ all right,” said the reporter, in his most sprightly manner, much relieved to find the real Griffin was not so terrible. “I shall be glad to wait in the lobby.” He departed, with young Hike bowing a most courteous and gracious farewell. As the door closed, Poodle looked up from a chair by the window, looked at the bell-boy, grinning on the bed, then at Hike, then began slowly to smile. Hike, at first rather angry, tried to keep sober, then suddenly the three of them were rolling on the bed, kicking and shrieking with joy, till finally Hike gasped: “Mr. Torrington Darby, we are vulgar.” “Mr. Gerald Griffin, we _are_ vulgar!” Poodle solemnly assured him; while, as for the bell-boy, he merely stated: “Chee! I t’ought I’d die!” Hike and Poodle had breakfast in their room. As they were fondly contemplating the last crumbs of the toasted-rolls-with-marmalade (lots of marmalade!) the bell-boy returned, to announce, “Say, there’s about thirty reporters waiting to talk t’ youse, downstairs.” “Well, we’ll have to face ’em,” said Poodle, bravely.