“No, sir.”
Toomey tapped the lapel of his jacket impressively with his forefinger.
“I’m Jasper Toomey of Prouty, Wyoming.”
The waiter received the information without flinching.
“Call up the Blackstone and they’ll tell you I’ll be in to-morra an’ shettle.” He wafted the waiter away grandly, that person shrugging a dubious shoulder as he vanished. “They’ll tell 'im the f'ancial standin’ of Jasper Toomey—shirtingly.”
The waiter returned almost immediately.
“The hotel knows you only as a guest, sir.”
“Thish is insult—d‘lib’rate insult.” Mr. Toomey rose to his feet and stood unsteadily. “Send manager to me immedially—immedially!”
“He’s busy, sir,” replied the waiter with a touch of impatience, “but he said you’d have to settle before leaving.”
Mrs. Toomey, crimson with mortification and panic-stricken as visions of a patrol wagon and station house rose before her, interrupted when Toomey would have continued to argue.