“And I?  What would you expect?  In less than two weeks I was a stowaway on a French liner.  They routed me out and set me to stoking.  I couldn’t stand that, of course; so they put me to work in the kitchens, cleaning pots, dumping garbage, waiting on the crew.  I had to make the round trip too.  Then I jumped the stinking craft, only to get a worse berth on a P. & O. liner.  I worked with Chinese, Lascars, coolies, the scum of the earth; worked and ate and slept and fought with them.  I crawled ashore and deserted in strange ports.  I think it was at Aden where I came nearest to starving the first time.  And I remember the docks at Alexandria.  Sometimes the tourists threw down coppers for the Arab and Berber boys to scrabble for.  It’s a pleasant custom.  I was there, in that scrabbling, cursing, clawing rabble.  And when I’d had a good day I spent my coppers royally in a native dance-hall which even guides don’t dare show to the trippers.

“Respectability, my dear Bob, is all a matter of comparison.  I acquired a lot of new standards.  As a second cabin steward on a Brazos liner I became quite haughty.  Poverty!  You don’t know what it means until you’ve rubbed elbows with it in the Far East and the Far South.  Here you have the Bowery Mission bread line.  That’s a fair sample, Bob, of our American opulence.  Free bread!”

“So you’ve been in that, have you?” asks Mr. Robert.

“Have I?” says Bunny.  “I’ve pals down there tonight who will wonder what has become of me.”

Mr. Robert shudders.  And, say, it made me feel chilly along the spine too.

“Well, what now?” says Mr. Robert.  “I suppose you expect me to find you some sort of work?”

“Not at all,” says Bunny.  “Another of those cigarettes, if you don’t mind.  Excellent brand.  Thanks.  But work?  How inconsiderate, Bob!  I wasn’t born to be useful.  You know that well enough.  No, work doesn’t appeal to me.”

Mr. Robert flushes up at that.  “Then,” says he, pointin’ stern, “there’s the door.”

“Oh, what’s the hurry?” says Bunny.  “This is heaven to me, all this,—­the old club, you know, and good tobacco, and—­say, Bob, if I might suggest, a pint of that ’85 vintage would add just the finishing touch.  Come, I haven’t tasted a glass of fizz since—­well, I’ve forgotten.  Just for auld lang syne!”

Mr. Robert gasps, hesitates a second, and then pushes the button.  Bunny inspects the label critical when it’s brought in, waves graceful to Mr. Robert, and slides the bottle back tender into the cooler.

“Ah-h-h!” says he.  “And doesn’t Henri have any more of those dainty little caviar canapes on hand?  They go well with fizz.”

“Canapes,” says Mr. Robert to the waiter.  “And another box of those gold-tipped Russians.”

“A vous!” says Bunny, raisin’ a glassful of bubbles and salutin’.  “I’m as thirsty as a camel driver.”