"I think it's a shame!"
"I want no more words with you," retorted Job Haskers, and motioned the waiter to leave the room. Then he went out, locking the door and pocketing the key as before.
"Well, if this isn't the limit!" growled Phil. "A glass of milk and three slices of bread and butter apiece!"
"Well, we shan't starve, Phil," and Dave grinned to himself in the semi-darkness.
"And no light to eat by—and the room more than half cold. Dave, are you going to stand this?"
"I am not," was the firm response.
"What are you going to do?"
"Get out of here—if I possibly can," was Dave's reply.