Get me a glass of water, waiter."
"Want to be in at the death, do you?" asked Forster.
"I hope you don't object," said Ives, pleadingly. "Never in my life have
I seen a gentleman arrested in a public restaurant for swindling it out
of a dinner."
"All right," said Forster, calmly. "You are entitled to see a Christian
die in the arena as your _pousse-cafe_."
Victor came with the glass of water and remained, with the disengaged
air of an inexorable collector.
Forster hesitated for fifteen seconds, and then took a pencil from his
pocket and scribbled his name on the dinner check. The waiter bowed and
took it away.
"The fact is," said Forster, with a little embarrassed laugh, "I doubt
whether I'm what they call a 'game sport,' which means the same as a
'soldier of Fortune.' I'll have to make a confession. I've been dining
at this hotel two or three times a week for more than a year. I always
sign my checks." And then, with a note of appreciation in his voice: "It
was first-rate of you to stay to see me through with it when you knew I
had no money, and that you might be scooped in, too."
"I guess I'll confess, too," said Ives, with a grin. "I own the hotel.
I don't run it, of course, but I always keep a suite on the third floor
for my use when I happen to stray into town.
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