There was something of a strained wait when all of us had taken our places. I saw the old gentleman, eye-glasses on the tip of his nose, studying the bill of fare intently. Then he turned to his wife. "Minced chicken and rice--peptonized," he said suspiciously. "Did you ever hear of such a dish, Mary?" "Never. But nothing would surprise me in this place," replied his wife, looking round the room with a censorious eye that even included the innocent Tony and myself. The two children chuckled. They wore an air of expectancy such as I have noticed in my nephews and nieces when I have been inveigled into taking them to Maskelyne's show. They seemed on very intimate terms with the waitress, and the mere sight of the boots sent them into fits of suppressed chuckling. He, standing by the sideboard, napkin over arm, added to their hilarity by winking violently at regular intervals. Catching my eye upon him, he crossed to our table. "Everything all right, eh?" he said, glancing over the lay-out of our table. "Everything--except that so far we have had no food," I replied. "It's the soup," he said, leaning confidentially to my ear. "The cat fell into it, and they're combing it out of her fur. Have a drink while you wait? No! All right, old thing. I dare say you know best when you've had enough. Shut up, you kids! Don't you see you're irritating the old boy." This in a hoarse aside to the children at the next table. It made them giggle the more. "Surely they are very young to be stopping here alone!" said Tony, with a touch of her national inquisitiveness. "Very sad case, madam," replied the boots. "We found them here when we came. You know--wrapped in a blanket on the doorstep. Not quite, perhaps, but you see the idea. Sort of wards of the hotel." He was interrupted by the entrance of the waitress with soup. She gave him a frozen glance and a jerk of the head, and he vanished to the kitchen, to return with more soup, and at last we got a start on our meal. The soup was good notwithstanding the story of the cat. It really was mulligatawny. There was no doubt about that. The old couple were not so well satisfied. They sipped a little, had a whispered consultation, and beckoned the boots. "Waiter, why do you call this beef-tea?" demanded the old gentleman. "You can't have me there, my lad," retorted boots cheerily. "From the Latin beef, beef and tea, tea--beef-tea. Take a spoonful of tea and a lump of beef, shake well together, simmer gently till ready, and serve with a ham-frill." The old gentleman's face showed deep purple against his white whiskers, and the waitress left our table hurriedly, hustled the boots from the room, and crossed to the old couple. I could not hear all she said, but I understood that the boots was liable to slight delusions, but quite harmless. The beef-tea was the best that could be prepared on such short notice, and so on.