And again I drank with them, against my better judgment, wondering if I might escape long enough to be put through to Mrs. Floud on the telephone. Too plainly the situation was rapidly getting out of hand, and yet I hesitated. The Tuttle person under an exterior geniality was rather abrupt. And, moreover, I now recalled having observed a person much like him in manner and attire in a certain cinema drama of the far Wild West. He had been a constable or sheriff in the piece and had subdued a band of armed border ruffians with only a small pocket pistol. I thought it as well not to cross him. When they had drunk, each one again said, “Well! well!” “You old maverick!” said Cousin Egbert. “You--dashed--old horned toad!” responded his friend. “What’s the matter with a little snack?” “Not a thing on earth. My appetite ain’t been so powerful craving since Heck was a pup.” These were their actual words, though it may not be believed. The Tuttle person now approached his cabman, who had waited beside the curb. “Say, Frank,” he began, “Ally restorong,” and this he supplemented with a crude but informing pantomime of one eating. Cousin Egbert was already seated in the cab, and I could do nothing but follow. “Ally restorong!” commanded our new friend in a louder tone, and the cabman with an explosion of understanding drove rapidly off. “It’s a genuine wonder to me how you learned the language so quick,” said Cousin Egbert. “It’s all in the accent,” protested the other. I occupied a narrow seat in the front. Facing me in the back seat, they lolled easily and smoked their cigars. Down the thronged boulevard we proceeded at a rapid pace and were passing presently before an immense gray edifice which I recognized as the so-called Louvre from its illustration on the cover of Cousin Egbert’s art book. He himself regarded it with interest, though I fancy he did not recognize it, for, waving his cigar toward it, he announced to his friend: “The Public Library.” His friend surveyed the building with every sign of approval. “That Carnegie is a hot sport, all right,” he declared warmly. “I’ll bet that shack set him back some.” “Three rousing cheers!” said Cousin Egbert, without point that I could detect. We now crossed their Thames over what would have been Westminster Bridge, I fancy, and were presently bowling through a sort of Battersea part of the city. The streets grew quite narrow and the shops smaller, and I found myself wondering not without alarm what sort of restaurant our abrupt friend had chosen. “Three rousing cheers!” said Cousin Egbert from time to time, with almost childish delight.