“Why, here, of course. Is it possible that this is the first time you have seen him? Why, he has been coming here every evening for a week at least. Ah, I remember, you have not put in an appearance for about that time. We boys have nicknamed him ‘the Grenadier.’ He always takes a seat at that table where he is now, and, after sitting about an hour, and drinking two or three glasses of beer, goes off. We are curious to know who the deuse he can be.” “Does he always come alone?” “Invariably. Never speaks to a soul, save Hans, of course. What! do you know him?” The Don’s eyes and mine had met, and we had bowed; he with the smile courteous, I with the smile expansive and bland, born of many beers. “No; I can’t say that I do. I have met him on the street merely. But I am rather interested in him,—why, I will tell you hereafter. I say, boys,” I continued, “let’s have him over here.” “Good!” I approached the Don with my sweetest smile, and, saluting him, said something about our being a jolly party over at our table, and wouldn’t he join us? “Thanks; with pleasure,” said he, rising; and the “boys,” seeing him approach, made room for him with much hospitable bustle. “Mr. Smith,” said he, in a low voice, as we crossed the room. “Mr. Whacker,” replied I; and, seizing his hand, I shook it with unctuous cordiality. Are we not all brethren? CHAPTER IX. “Well, fair damsels, I have found out the great, great secret!” “Oh, do tell us! Who is he?” “Who he is I cannot say, but I now know his name.” “Then Don Miff is not his real name!” said Mary, with a rather injured air. “But of course we could not expect, in our every-day world, to meet an actual person with such a name as that.” “I should think not,” said Alice. “But what _is_ his name, Mr. Whacker? How fearfully slow you are, when we are dying of curiosity, as you know!” “How stupid we have all been!” said I. “In what respect?” “How shockingly, dismally stupid and obtuse!” “But how?” “Did you not put Laura up to asking his name? You did. And did she not bring back the words _Don Miff_ as the result of her investigations, and none of us ever suspected the plain English of the matter?” Here Alice gave a little shriek and fell upon a sofa. “Just listen,” said I to Mary and Lucy, who were looking from Alice to me, and from me to Alice, with a bewildered air. “Listen carefully. J-o-h-n S-m-i-t-h, John Smith, or, according to Laura, Don Miff!” “Impossible!” cried Mary, with a resolute stamp of her foot. “But he told me his name himself.” “I can’t help what he told you; but no one shall ever make me believe that his name is John Smith. There are people named Smith, of course.” “No fair-minded person would deny that,” said Alice. “Why, Mary, there is your own Aunt Judy.”