In a moment the brothers were back, progressing slowly under the weight of a tremendous sand-filled cigarette urn. They shuffled to the center of the car and laboriously hoisted their cumbersome burden up to Marc. "Here," Gerald panted. "Take it." Marc regarded the thing without enthusiasm. "Good grief!" he said. "That thing'll break my back. Can't you just get me something to eat?" "Take it," Toffee said shortly. "You can come and get your own food. And don't drop it. Personally, I don't intend to go galloping up to the top of this hotel again after you. Next time you take off, I'll just forward your mail to the moon and let it go at that." With a sigh of hopeless resignation, Marc took hold of the urn, and the Blemishes let go and stepped back. Instantly Marc and the urn crashed to the floor with a tooth-rattling thud. "Ugh!" Marc said. "There, you see," Toffee beamed. "It works beautifully. Now, come on, let's eat." And so it was that a moment later the diners in the Wynant dining room were suddenly shocked into silence by the arrival of the most bizarre dinner party ever to venture forth in quest of food. It was not enough that a combustible-looking redhead, garishly clad only in a few precarious sequins, had arrived in their midst, this had to be followed by a tall, anguished gentleman bent double under the weight of an enormous cigarette urn. Why either the girl or her grimacing escort had chosen to arrive at dinner in their respective conditions was beyond comprehension. With this mystery to brood over, hardly anyone even noticed the duplicate, derby-hatted, bush-bearded horrors in the background. With great unconcern the party arrived at the head of the short stairway leading to the dining room and paused grandly in full view of the entire room. No one was more stunned at the sight of this questionable quartet than the _maitre d'hotel_. If the circus had come to town this elegant and formidable gentleman had not heard of it. He hastened forward to correct what was obviously a gross mistake. "I'm terribly sorry ..." he began in private tones. * * * * * Toffee recognized the attitude instantly. "If you think you're going to put us out of here," she said, "you're going to be much more than sorry." She nodded toward Marc. "This gentleman needs food. He's weak as a kitten." Marc looked up at the maitre de and bared his teeth in what he hoped was a reassuring smile. The maitre de glanced away with a pained expression. Then looked quickly back. "Isn't that one of our urns?" he asked sternly. "We only borrowed it for a moment," Toffee explained. "You can have it back when we're through with it." "I suggest that the gentleman put it back where he found it right now," the maitre de said coolly. "I can't put it back," Marc gritted breathlessly. "For the love of Mike stop bickering and give me something to eat. I'm feeling weaker by the second."