LITMIR.BIZ

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advanced toward him, their faces grown stern. The waiter retreated.

      Peter suddenly reached over to a plate on the table beside him and picking up a handful of hash tossed it into the air. It descended as a languid parabola in snowflake effect on the heads of those near by.

      “Hey! Ease up!”

      “Put him out!”

      “Sit down, Peter!”

      “Cut out that stuff!”

      Peter laughed and bowed.

      “Thank you for your kind applause, ladies and gents. If some one will lend me some more hash and a tall hat we will go on with the act.”

      The bouncer bustled up.

      “You’ve gotta get out!” he said to Peter.

      “Hell, no!”

      “He’s my friend!” put in Dean indignantly.

      A crowd of waiters were gathering. “Put him out!”

      “Better go, Peter.”

      There was a short, struggle and the two were edged and pushed toward the door.

      “I got a hat and a coat here!” cried Peter.

      “Well, go get ’em and be spry about it!”

      The bouncer released his hold on Peter, who, adopting a ludicrous air of extreme cunning, rushed immediately around to the other table, where he burst into derisive laughter and thumbed his nose at the exasperated waiters.

      “Think I just better wait a l’il longer,” he announced.

      The chase began. Four waiters were sent around one way and four another. Dean caught hold of two of them by the coat, and another struggle took place before the pursuit of Peter could be resumed; he was finally pinioned after overturning a sugar-bowl and several cups of coffee. A fresh argument ensued at the cashier’s desk, where Peter attempted to buy another dish of hash to take with him and throw at policemen.

      But the commotion upon his exit proper was dwarfed by another phenomenon which drew admiring glances and a prolonged involuntary “Oh-h-h!” from every person in the restaurant.

      The great plate-glass front had turned to a deep blue, the color of a Maxfield Parrish moonlight — a blue that seemed to press close upon the pane as if to crowd its way into the restaurant. Dawn had come up in Columbus Circle, magical, breathless dawn, silhouetting the great statue of the immortal Christopher, and mingling in a curious and uncanny manner with the fading yellow electric light inside.

       X

      Mr. In and Mr. Out are not listed by the census-taker. You will search for them in vain through the social register or the births, marriages, and deaths, or the grocer’s credit list. Oblivion has swallowed them and the testimony that they ever existed at all is vague and shadowy, and inadmissible in a court of law. Yet I have it upon the best authority that for a brief space Mr. In and Mr. Out lived, breathed, answered to their names and radiated vivid personalities of their own.

      During the brief span of their lives they walked in their native garments down the great highway of a great nation; were laughed at, sworn at, chased, and fled from. Then they passed and were heard of no more.

      They were already taking form dimly, when a taxi cab with the top open breezed down Broadway in the faintest glimmer of May dawn. In this car sat the souls of Mr. In and Mr. Out discussing with amazement the blue light that had so precipitately colored the sky behind the statue of Christopher Columbus, discussing with bewilderment the old, gray faces of the early risers which skimmed palely along the street like blown bits of paper on a gray lake. They were agreed on all things, from the absurdity of the bouncer in Childs’ to the absurdity of the business of life. They were dizzy with the extreme maudlin happiness that the morning had awakened in their glowing souls. Indeed, so fresh and vigorous was their pleasure in living that they felt it should be expressed by loud cries.

      “Ye-ow-ow!” hooted Peter, making a megaphone with his hands — and Dean joined in with a call that, though equally significant and symbolic, derived its resonance from its very inarticulateness.

      “Yo-ho! Yea! Yoho! Yo-buba!”

      Fifty-third Street was a bus with a dark, bobbed-hair beauty atop; Fifty-second was a street cleaner who dodged, escaped, and sent up a yell of, “Look where you’re aimin’!” in a pained and grieved voice. At Fiftieth Street a group of men on a very white sidewalk in front of a very white building turned to stare after them, and shouted:

      “Some party, boys!”

      At Forty-ninth Street Peter turned to Dean. “Beautiful morning,” he said gravely, squinting up his owlish eyes.

      “Probably is.”

      “Go get some breakfast, hey?”

      Dean agreed — with additions.

      “Breakfast and liquor.”

      “Breakfast and liquor,” repeated Peter, and they looked at each other, nodding. “That’s logical.”

      Then they both burst into loud laughter.

      “Breakfast and liquor! Oh, gosh!”

      “No such thing,” announced Peter.

      “Don’t serve it? Ne’mind. We force ’em serve it Bring pressure bear.”

      “Bring logic bear.”

      The taxi cut suddenly off Broadway, sailed along a cross street, and stopped in front of a heavy tomb-like building in Fifth Avenue.

      “What’s idea?”

      The taxi-driver informed them that this was Delmonico’s.

      This was somewhat puzzling. They were forced to devote several minutes to intense concentration, for if such an order had been given there must have been a reason for it.

      “Somep’m ‘bouta coat,” suggested the taxi-man.

      That was it. Peter’s overcoat and hat. He had left them at Delmonico’s. Having decided this, they disembarked from the taxi and strolled toward the entrance arm in arm.

      “Hey!” said the taxi-driver.

      “Huh?”

      “You better pay me.”

      They shook their heads in shocked negation.

      “Later, not now — we give orders, you wait.”

      The taxi-driver objected; he wanted his money now. With the scornful condescension of men exercising tremendous self-control they paid him.

      Inside Peter groped in vain through a dim, deserted checkroom in search of his coat and derby.

      “Gone, I guess. Somebody stole it.”

      “Some Sheff student.”

      “All probability.”

      “Never mind,” said Dean, nobly. “I’ll leave mine here too — then we’ll both be dressed the same.”

      He removed his overcoat and hat and was hanging them up when his roving glance was caught and held magnetically by two large squares of cardboard tacked to the two coatroom doors. The one on the left-hand door bore the word “In” in big black letters, and the one on the right-hand door flaunted the equally emphatic word “Out.”

      “Look!” he exclaimed happily —

      Peter’s eyes followed his pointing finger.

      “What?”

      “Look at the signs. Let’s take ‘em.”

      “Good idea.”

      “Probably pair very rare

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