“Some East Side joint,” he decided, “and a cheap one too, from the size of this stall.”  He noted another brass bed close at hand and reasoned that Ringold or Higgins must have risen early, leaving him to finish his sleep.  That was considerate, of course, but—­ Good heavens, it must be late!  And he was due to motor to New Haven at noon!  He raised himself suddenly, and was half out of bed when he fell back, with a cry, as if an unseen hand had smitten him.  He clapped both palms to his head, realizing that he was very sick indeed.  The sensation was unlike anything he had ever felt before.  His head was splitting, he felt a frightful nausea, the whole room was rocking and reeling as if to pitch him out of bed.  It was terrible; so he arose blindly and felt his way toward the telephone.  Failing to find it, he pushed a button instead, then tumbled back to bed, reviling the luck that had brought him to such a miserable place.  He closed his eyes tightly and calmed his stomach by an effort of will.  At last he heard the door open and a voice inquire: 

“Did you ring, sir?”

“An hour ago.  Haven’t you more than one bell-hop in this place?”

“I’m sorry, sir.”

“And I’m sick, mighty sick.  I’m going to die.”

“I think not, sir; the others are sick, too.”

“That’s good!  I was afraid they’d dressed and gone.”  It was some consolation to know that Ringold and Higgins had not escaped their share of suffering.  “How is Hig—­the bony fellow?”

“Do you mean the gentleman in thirty-two?”

“How should I know his number?  That’s not Hig’s description, however—­even you could tell that he is no gentle—­Oh, Lord!”

“Can I get you something, sir—­a little champagne, perhaps, to settle your stomach?”

“No, no!  Get me a taxicab.  I want to go up-town.”

“Rather a long drive, isn’t it?” snickered the bell-boy.

“Never mind the comedy.”  Anthony opened his eyes.  “Hello!  Are you the clerk?” Instead of the bell-hop he had expected he beheld a man in white jacket and black trousers.

“No, sir, I’m the steward.”

The invalid shook his head faintly.  “Funny place I’ve got into.  What’s the name of it?”

“This?  Oh!  The Santa Cruz.”

“Never heard of it.  Why didn’t they give me a good room?  This is fierce.”

“Suite A is considered very good, sir.  It is one of the best on the line.”

“Line?” Kirk grunted.  “So this is some dead-line dump.  Well, I’m going to get out—­understand?  Hand me my trousers and I’ll slip you a quarter.”

The steward did as desired, but a blind search showed the pockets to be empty.

“Give me the coat and vest.”  But here again Kirk found nothing, and was forced to apologize.  “Sorry, old man, but I must have left it at the office.  Now be a good fellow and hustle up that taxi.  I’m getting sicker every minute.”