A bit later a piece of folded paper landed almost in my French dressing. It was a note from the Spaniard: “Will you go riding with me to-night?” I wrote on the bottom of the paper: “Not to-night. Perhaps next week, yes?” A few moments later a folded menu landed on the floor. On the back was written: “I will be very pleased whenever you can or wish. Could it be Sunday? I hope you wouldn't take it amiss my asking you this. Frank.” I really wanted to take that bus ride with Frank. It still worries me that I did not. He was such a lonesome person. Then there was the tall, lean, dark Irish waiter I called Mr. O'Sullivan. He was a continual joy to my heart and gave me cause for many a chuckle. A rebel, was Mr. O'Sullivan. I heard Kelly call him down twice for growling at what he considered inexcusable desires in the matter of food or service on the part of patrons by telling Mr. O'Sullivan it was none of his —— business. But I loved to listen to Mr. O'Sullivan's growlings, and once he realized that, he used to stop at my counter, take extra long to collect three slices of lemon, and tell me his latest grievance. To-night, this Thursday, he was sputtering. “Shure and de y'know what now? I've two parties out there want finger bowls. _Finger bowls!_” sputtered Mr. O'Sullivan. “Shure an' it's a long ways from the sight of finger bowls them two was born. It had better be a pail apiece they'd be askin' for. Finger bowls indeed!” Mr. O'Sullivan had gotten down to a mumble. “Shure an' they make me _sick_!” Mr. O'Sullivan knew that I gave ear to his sentiments upon such matters as old parties, male or female, who must needs order special kinds of extra digestible bread, and usually that bread must in addition be toasted. While it was toasting, Mr. O'Sullivan voiced his views on Old Maids with Indigestion. Much of it does not bear repeating. When the toast was done, Mr. O'Sullivan would hold out his plate with the napkin folded ready for the toast. “Shure an yo'r the sweetest child my eyes ever looked upon” (Mr. O'Sullivan would say just the same thing in the same way to a toothless old hag of ninety). “Mind you spare yo'rself now from both bein' an old maid and sufferin' to the point where y' can't eat plain white bread!” This particular Thursday I had even found some one to talk to in the recreation room when I sneaked up at three o'clock. There came a time when Schmitz's patience was strained over my regular disappearance from about 3 to 3.30. There was absolutely nothing for me to do just then in my own line, so I embraced that opportunity daily to take my way to the recreation room and see what pickings I could gather up. But one afternoon Schmitz's face bore an extra-heavy frown. “Say, what you do every day that keeps you from your work all this time? Don't you know that ain't no way to do? Don't you understand hotel work is just like a factory? Everybody must be in his place all day and not go wandering off!”