At the apparition, several diners had jumped excitedly to their feet, (with the world-old instinct which taught prehistoric man to meet danger or surprise, standing); others had craned their necks or shouted confused queries. One woman had cried out. Every eye in the room was upon the grotesque, couchant little figure huddled against the centre pillar. The toastmaster turned in lofty severity upon the big man in the doorway. “Steward!” he declaimed. “What does this mean?” “I--I am extremely sorry, Mr. Dillingham!” answered the steward, venturing forward. “I’m sure I apologize most sincerely. I wouldn’t have had such a thing happen for worlds. We were short of men in the kitchen, to-night, sir. That--that old panhandler over there, sir,” pointing an abhorring finger at the refugee, “came around looking for an odd job. So I set him to washing dishes. He said he’d stopped off a train on his way from the West. He got at some of the wines, sir, when we wasn’t looking. He’s in a disgusting state, sir. Then one of my men caught him pocketing some forks and I told two of the waiters to search him and send for the police. They grabbed him, but he slipped away and ran in here. So I--” “That will do! That will _do_!” thundered the toastmaster, succeeding, after divers trials, in breaking in upon the narrative. “Remove him. At once! And as quietly as you can.--I am more sorry than I can say,” he went on urbanely, addressing the guests, “that such a disgraceful scene should have--” A howl from the man on the floor cut short the apology. Two servants had approached to do the toastmaster’s bidding. As the first of them seized him by the shoulder the little man screamed like a mad cat. Locking his legs about the pillar, he turned upon his assailants with fists and teeth, fighting with the deadly, unscientific fury of a cornered wild thing. The scrimmage that followed set the room in dire confusion. To end which, the toastmaster so far unbent as to rush among the combatants and order back his myrmidons. The attendants drew away, disheveled, bleeding, robbed of the spruce neatness that was the Arareek’s pride. The defender’s jacket had been torn off. There was a slight cut on his forehead. But his little bloodshot eyes glared with undiminished drunken defiance; nor had his opponents’ best efforts dislodged his legs from about the pillar. “Oh, the sacred Arareek!” muttered Caine, leaning across toward Conover. “Dillingham will be in hysterics in another minute. The sanctity of his state dinner shattered just when he was at his asinine best! See, some of the women are starting to go. If they leave, it’ll break his heart.” But Caleb did not hear. Almost alone of all those in the room, he had shown no excitement. Fights were no novelty to him. Bent forward, yet emotionless, his eyes had never once left the distorted face of the drunken interloper.