They are in the midst of gayety now, and as he sits there by the stove, unconscious of where he is, he is living over again the delights of many memorable nights in the great metropolis. He hears the glad strains of the piano, the merry shouts of feminine laughter, and sees the whirling skirts and flying feet of myriad fleet dancers. His throat is parched and he must have wine, and so must they all, at his expense. Kindly faces cluster around him, kind hands help to pull his money from his pocket, and, lest he should lose them, his watch from his fob, his rings from his fingers, his pin and studs from his shirt. These are indeed swift passing, merry hours---- “Have to wake up, sir; it’s one o’clock, and I’ve got to close up! Didn’t you have a watch-chain on when you came in here first?” It is the bartender who has broken the spell, and the sucker’s glad dream is over. * * * * * “Well, suppose you take the watch, and I’ll take the pin and studs, and we’ll divide the sleeve buttons,” says Crooked Charlie to his companion as the two enter a saloon a few blocks away from the Café Throwout. “That’s all right, that’s all right,” rejoins the Rev. William Cassock as he stuffs his share of the bills away in an inside pocket, “but in the meantime let us not forget that the same Providence that caused the manna to fall in the desert and sent the ravens down to feed Elisha brought this sucker to the Café Throwout and cast over him the mystic spell of deep, painless sleep. By the way, let me compliment you on a certain detail in your make-up which has attracted my attention. I notice that you wear one of those dude collars, without either cravat or pin. That is in keeping with your part. A jay would be content with such a collar, but one of us would get a cravat and pin first.” CHRISTMAS EVE AT THE SYNDICATE VILLAGE. One bright morning about six weeks before Christmas Day the spirit of diligence in well-doing descended like a dove and took complete possession of the brain and soul of Mr. S. S. McClure, the benevolent founder of the thriving literary village of Syndicate, which stands on the banks of the Hackensack River, an enduring monument to his far-seeing philanthropy.