Hep took six--one for himself and five for the goat. Can you blame him? CHAPTER V YOU SHOULD WORRY ABOUT BEING IN LOVE Say! have you ever noticed that when a gink with an aluminum headpiece is handed the "This-Way-Out" signal by his adored one, he either hikes for a pickle parlor and begins to festoon his system with hops, or he stands in front of a hardware store and gazes gloomily at the guns? You haven't noticed it! Why, you astonish me. Friend wife met me by appointment to take dinner at the Saint Astormore the other evening and with her was her little brother, Stephen, aged nine. "I brought Stevie with me because I had some shopping to do and he's so much company," Peaches explained as we sat down in the restaurant. "Stevie is always pleasant company," I agreed, politely, but with a watchful eye on my youthful brother-in-law all the while. That kid was born with an abnormal bump of mischief and, by painstaking endeavor, he has won the world's championship as an organizer of impromptu riots. "Oh, John!" said Peaches, when I began to make faces at the menu card, "I didn't notice until now how pale you look. Have you had a busy day?" "Busy!" I repeated; "well, rather. I've been giving imitations of a bull fight. Everybody I met was the bull and I was the fight. Nominate your eats! What'll it be, Stevie?" "Sponge cake," said Stephen, promptly. "What else?" asked Peaches. "More sponge cake," the youth replied, and just then the smiling and sympathetic waiter stooped down to pick up a fork Stephen had dropped. In his anxiety not to miss anything, Stevie rubbered acrobatically with the result that he upset a glass of ice water down the waiter's neck, and three seconds later the tray-trotter had issued an Extra and was saying things in French that would sound scandalous if translated. It cost me a dollar to bring the dish-dragger back to earth, and Stevie said I could break his bank open when we got home and take all the money if I'd let him do it again. Just then I got a flash of Dike Lawrence bearing down in our direction under a full head of benzine. Dike was escorting a three days' jag and whispering words of encouragement to it. A good fellow, Dike, but he shouldn't permit a distillery to use his thirst as a testing station--he's too temperamental. "H'ar'ye, Mrs. John?" he gurgled as the waiter pushed an extra chair under him. "Howdy, John? How de do, little man! 'Scuse me for int'rupting a perf'ly splendid family party--my mistake!--I'm all in--that's it--I'm all in and it's your fault, John; all your fault!" "What's wrong, Dike?" I inquired. "Ev'thing!" he martinied; "ev'thing all wrong--lesh have drink--my mistake--didn't think of it before. Your little son growing to be a splendid boy, Mrs. John!" "This is Stephen, my little brother, not my little son," Peaches explained; "we haven't any children," she added nervously.