"Perfectly true," P. Sybarite admitted.
This time his anatomy proved quite docile. He found himself at the
foot of the steps, fatuously smiling at the doorkeeper.
"He ain't come in yet," said the latter; "but he's liable to be here
any minute now."
"Oh, yes," said P. Sybarite brightly, after a brief pause--"Mr.
Penfield, of course. Sorry I can't wait."
"Well, you'll want your hat before you go--won't you?"
Placing an incredulous hand upon the crown of his head, P. Sybarite
realised that it was covered exclusively with hair.
"I must have put it down somewhere upstairs," he murmured in panic.
"Mebbe you left it with Pete before you went up."
"Perhaps I did."
Turning back to the lounge, he entered to find it deserted save for
the somnolent old gentleman and the hospitable Pete, but for whom P.
Sybarite would probably never have known the delirious joy of that
internal celebration or found the courage to risk his first bet.
And suddenly the fifty-cent tip previously bestowed upon the servitor
seemed, to one unexpectedly fallen heir to the princely fortune then
in P. Sybarite's pockets, the very nadir of beggarliness.
"Pete," said he with owlish gravity, "I begin to see that I have done
you an inexcusable injustice."
Giggling, the negro scratched his head.
"Well, suh," he admitted, "Ah finds that gemmun gen'ly does change
they min's erbout me, aftuh they done cut er melon, like.
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