It was reception night at the Palace Hotel. As usual the floating population of San Francisco had drifted into the huge court of that luxurious caravansary, and was ebbing and eddying among the multitudes of white and shining columns that support the six galleries under the crystal roof. The band reveled in the last popular waltz, the hum of the spectators was hushed, but among the galleries might be seen pairs of adolescent youths and maidens swaying to the rhythmical melody. We were taking wine and cigarettes with the Colonel. He was always at home to us on Monday nights, and even our boisterous chat was suspended while the blustering trumpeters in the court below blew out their delirious music. It was at this moment that Bartholomew beckoned me to follow him from the apartment. We quietly repaired to the gallery among the huge vases of palms and creepers, and there, bluntly and without a moment's warning, the dear fellow blurted out this startling revelation: "I have made an engagement for you; be ready on Thursday next at 4 p.m.; meet me here; all arrangements are effected; say not a word, but come; and I promise you one of the jolliest experiences of the season." All this was delivered in a high voice, to the accompaniment of drums and cymbals; he concluded with the last flourish of the bandmaster's baton, and the applause of the public followed. Certainly dramatic effect could go no further. I was more than half persuaded, and yet, when the applause had ceased, the dancers unwound themselves, and the low rumble of a thousand restless feet rang on the marble pavement below, I found voice sufficient to ask the all-important question, "But what is the nature of this engagement?" To which he answered, "Oh, we're going down the coast for a few days, you and I, and Alf and Croesus. A charming bungalow by the sea; capital bathing, shooting, fishing; nice quiet time generally; back Monday morning in season for biz!" This was certainly satisfactory as far as it went, but I added, by way of parenthesis, "and who else will be present?" knowing well enough that one uncongenial spirit might be the undoing of us all. To this Bartholomew responded, "No one but ourselves, old fellow; now don't be queer." He knew well enough my aversion to certain elements unavoidable even in the best society, and how I kept very much to myself, except on Monday nights when we all smoked and laughed with the Colonel--whose uncommonly charming wife was abroad for the summer; and on Tuesday and Saturday nights, when I was at the club, and on Wednesdays, when I did the theatricals of the town, and on Thursdays and Fridays--but never mind! girls were out of the question in my case, and he knew that the bachelor hall where I preside was as difficult of access as a cloister. I might not have given my word without further deliberation, had not the impetuous Colonel seized us bodily and borne us back into his