He folded his arms, leaned back in his camp chair and turned a look of ponderous gravity upon the toastmaster. The latter, swaying back and forth on his toes, his hands in his pockets, was lengthily introducing the next speaker. At every third sentence his eye would sweep the room with a roguish twinkle as who should say: “Make ready now for the newest of my irresistible quips!” And the listeners would obediently prepare to roar. Letty’s pleasant giggle at each sally annoyed Caleb. He could not say why. But involuntarily he glanced toward her with a frown. She chanced to be looking at him, at the same moment, for companionship in her appreciation of the latest witticism. Meeting the scowl, her nose quivered and her smile froze into pitiful, half-appealing lines that added to Caleb’s senseless irritation. But, by an effort, he sought awkwardly to nullify any unpleasant impression of him that she might have gained. “What was that joke?” he whispered, to explain his frown. “I didn’t quite catch it.” “Why,” faltered Letty, “he said--he said--‘the man who hesitates, foozles.’ I _think_ that was it. Something like that. Or,--was it--‘the man who--’? Oh, listen! He’s going to tell that lovely story about the minister who had to give up golf or the pulpit. I do want to hear that!” The murmur of joyous anticipation, as the toastmaster hoisted preliminary warnings for this classic, showed that Letty was by no means unique in her choice of rechauffèe humor. Caleb sat glum under the salvo of merriment. Letty glanced sideways, in dawning uneasiness, at his set face. “And,” beamed the toastmaster, “as the Irish caddie said to the--” The door leading from the butler’s pantry burst open. Through the aperture into the bright-lit dining hall scurried a red-faced, bald-headed man; two club servants close at his heels. The fugitive was clad in a soiled waiter-jacket and a pair of patched overalls. Both garments had evidently been intended for someone much larger. Their present wearer seemed lost in their voluminous folds. Yet, even thus hampered, he dodged his pursuers with an agility little short of incredible in so old a man. Darting forward into the full blaze of light, he fled around the table. The two servants had checked their pursuit near the door; and now stood irresolute, at a loss whether or not to continue the chase into the sacred precincts of the dining room. They looked for instructions to a stout, pompous personage who, following them up from the pantry, now blocked the doorway and stared balefully at the little old man. The latter in his flight had come into violent contact with one of the slender pillars near the toastmaster’s chair. Wrapping both arms about this, he slid to the floor and crouched there; still clinging to the pillar; making horrible simian faces over his shoulder at the trio beside the pantry door.