The Wit and Humor of America, Volume VII | Page 5

some weeks in Japan. Later, at the Oriental Hotel in Manila,
the day of his arrival there, he saw a man observing him with smiling
interest, a kind of smile and interest which prompted Carrington to
smile in return. He was bored because the only officer he knew in the
Philippines was absent from Manila on an expedition to the interior;
and the man who smiled looked as if he might scatter the blues if he
were permitted to try. The stranger approached with a bright, frank look,
and said, "Don't you remember me, Mr. Carrington?"
"No-o."
"I was head waiter at the St. Dunstan."
"Oh, were you? Well, your face has a familiar look, somehow."
"Excuse my speaking to you, but I guess your last trip was what

induced me to come out here."
"That's odd."
"It is sort of funny. I'd saved a good deal--I'm the saving sort--and the
tenner you gave me that night--you remember, the night of the
dinner--happened to fetch my pile up to exactly five hundred. So I says
to myself that here was my chance to make a break for
freedom--independence, you understand."
"We're the very deuce for independence down our way."
"Yes, indeed, sir. I was awfully sorry to hear about the trouble you got
in at college; but, if you don't mind my saying so now, you boys were
going it a little that night."
"Going it? What night? There were several."
"The red-fire night. You tipped me ten for that dinner."
"Did I? I hope you have it yet, Mr.--"
"James Wilkins, sir. Did you see Mr. Thorpe and Mr. Culver as you
passed through San Francisco?"
"I did. How did you happen to know that I knew them?"
"I remember that they were chums of yours at college. We heard lots of
college gossip at St. Dunstan's. I called on them in San Francisco, and
Mr. Thorpe got me half-fare rates here. I've opened a restaurant here,
and am doing a good business. Some of the officers who knew me at
the St. Dunstan kind of made my place fashionable. Lieutenant
Sommers, of the cavalry, won't dine anywhere else."
"Sommers? I expected to find him here."
"He's just gone out with an expedition. He told me that you'd be along,
and that I was to see that you didn't starve. I've named my place the St.
Dunstan, and I'd like you to call there--I remember your favorite

dishes."
"That's very decent of you."
Mr. Wilkins looked frequently toward the entrance, with seeming
anxiety. "I wish the proprietor of this place would come in," he said at
last. "Lieutenant Sommers left me a check on this house for a
hundred--Mr. Sommers roomed here, and left his money with the office.
I need the cash to pay a carpenter who has built an addition for me.
Kind of funny to be worth not a cent less than five thousand gold, in
stock and good will, and be pushed for a hundred cash."
"If you've Mr. Sommers' check, I'll let you have the money--for St.
Dunstan's sake."
"If you could? Of course, you know the lieutenant's signature?"
"As well as my own. Quite right. Here you are. Where is your
restaurant?"
"You cross the Lunette, turn toward the bay--ask anybody. Hope to see
you soon. Good day."
Some officers called on Carrington, as they had been told to do by the
absent Sommers. When introductions were over, one of them handed a
paper to Carrington, saying gravely: "Sommers told me to give this to
you. It was published in San Francisco the day after you left, and
reached here while you were in Japan."
What Carrington saw was a San Francisco newspaper story of his
encounter with the Palace Hotel detective, an account of his famous
dinner at the St. Dunstan, some selections of his other college pranks,
allusion to the fact that he was a classmate of two San Franciscans,
Messrs. Thorpe and Culver, the whole illustrated with pictures of
Carrington and Presidio--the latter taken from the rogues' gallery.
"Very pretty, very pretty, indeed," murmured Carrington, his eyes
lingering with thoughtful pause on the picture of Presidio. "Could we
not celebrate my fame in some place of refreshment--the St. Dunstan,

for instance?"
They knew of no St. Dunstan's.
"I foreboded it," sighed Carrington. He narrated his recent experience
with one James Wilkins, "who, I now opine, is Mr. Presidio. It's not
worth troubling the police about, but I'd give a pretty penny to see Mr.
Presidio again. Not to reprove him for the error of his ways, but to
discover the resemblance which has led to this winsome newspaper
story."
The next day one of the officers told Carrington that he had learned that
Presidio and his wife, known to the police by a