The waiter and his cronies stood at a safe distance and watched the Thropps surround that banquet. They wondered where the old man got money enough to buy such breakfasts and why he didn't spend some of it on clothes. The favorite theory was that he was a farmer on whose acres somebody had discovered oil or gold and bought him out for a million. Mr. Thropp's proper waiter hoped that he would be as extravagant with his tip as he was with his order. He feared not. His waiterly intuition told him the old man put in with more enthusiasm than he paid out. At last the meal was over. The Thropps were groaning. They had not quite absorbed the feast, but they had wrecked it utterly. Mr. Thropp found only one omission in the perfect service. The toothpicks had to be asked for. All three Thropps wanted them. While Thropp was fishing in his pocket for a quarter, and finding only half a dollar which he did not want to reveal, the waiter placed before him a closely written manuscript, face down, with a lead-pencil on top of it. “What's this?” said Thropp. “Will you please to sign your name and room number, sir?” the waiter suggested. “Oh, I see,” said Thropp, and explained to his little flock. “You see, they got to keep tabs on the regular boarders.” Then he turned the face of the bill to the light. His pencil could hardly find a place to put his name in the long catalogue. He noted a sum scrawled in red ink: “$11.75.” “Wha-what's this?” he said, faintly. The surprised waiter explained with all suavity: “The price of the breakfast. If it is not added correctlee--” Thropp added it with accurate, but tremulous, pencil. The total was correct, if the items were. He explained: “But I'm a regular--er--roomer here. I pay by the week.” “Yes, sir--if you will sign, it will be all right.” “But that don't mean they're going to charge me for breakfast? 'Levum dollars and seventy-five cents for--for breakfast?--for a small family like mine is? Well, I'd like to see 'em! What do they think I am!” The waiter maintained his courtesy, but Adna was infuriated. He put down no tip at all. He lifted his family from the table with a yank of the eyes and snapped at the waiter: “I'll soon find out who's tryin' to stick me.--you or the proprietor.” The old man stalked out, followed by his fat ewe and their ewe lamb. Adna's very toothpick was like a small bayonet. His wife and daughter hung back to avoid being spattered with the gore of the unfortunate hotel clerk. The morning trains were unloading their mobs, and it was difficult to reach the desk at all. When finally Adna got to the bar he had lost some of his running start. With somewhat weakly anger he said to the first clerk he reached: “Looky here! I registered here last night, and another young feller was here said the two rooms would be twelve dollars.” “Yes, sir.”