Recovering himself, the caterer hurried towards his assembled employees. From his manner it appeared he hoped for the best but suspected the worst. "What's the matter here?" he demanded in low, tense tones. "We have struck," murmured the waiters. Mr. Vivian's worst expectations were confirmed. "Why?" he inquired, with the usual interest of employers under similar circumstances. The strikers turned and pointed at the form of Mr. Jones as he distributed a tray of viands with such marvelous rapidity that the effect of the walkout was as yet unnoticed by the aged. "Scab," they hissed in hostile sibilation. "Strikebreaker," they groaned, impressed by the wonderful dexterity of the stenographer. "Where did that bird come from?" demanded the amazed Mr. Vivian as he viewed the skill of the gratuitous laborer. "You know," taunted an irate waiter; but Mr. Vivian's honest countenance gave him the lie in his teeth, noiselessly. Curiosity held the little group. They examined Mr. Jones's work with professional interest, making surmises as to his identity. "Looks like a jockey," said one. "More like a barber," urged another. "I'll bet ten cents he is an ex-bartender," wagered a sportive character. Even as they watched, Mr. Jones approached Virginia, offering her food with profound bows and courtly manners. "He is a waiter," declared the strikers with one accord, and again they rested suspicious eyes upon Mr. Vivian. "That dub ain't working for me," affirmed the caterer. Much elated at successfully allaying famine, Mr. Jones turned anew towards the kitchen. Had not Virginia smiled upon him? He swung his tray and whistled a merry tune. In the pleasure of serving others, the aches and pains of the athlete were forgotten. At the kitchen door he was surrounded by resolute men. "Make no resistance," a determined voice warned. The white coated mob moved away escorting Mr. Jones as towards summary execution. Scenting happenings of interest, Ike followed. From the kitchen Serena sought information. "Whar yo'all gwine?" she demanded. "Dey done struck. Yah--yah--yah," laughed Ike. "Shut you' big mouf. Ah ain' er astin' you nothin'." Serena reproved the chauffeur and then she charged into the midst of the mob. "Wot yo'all mean a leavin' ma trays an' dirty dishes out in dat ya'd? Ain' you know how to wait?" Her eyes flashed her indignation. "Go git ma dishes an' ma trays afo'e ah meks you move fas'er den you lak." As snow before an April sun the strike melted. The waiters departed hastily for their field of duty, leaving Mr. Jones alone with Serena. She glared at him fiercely. "How cum you mek ma waiters mad?" she demanded. Amazed at the strange results of his diligence, Mr. Jones stood silent under her accusation. She inspected his slight figure contemptuously. "Clea' out," she commanded, "afo ah lays ma han' on you an' breks you, boy."