Handsomely engraved, a card bearing the above inscription was sent about the middle of May to all the Idiot's old friends of Mrs. Smithers-Pedagog's select home for gentlemen, and it is needless to say that they all accepted.
"I wonder what the dickens he means by 'Last Call,'" said Mr. Brief to the Genial Old Gentleman who occasionally imbibed. "Sounds like the warning of the dining-car porter on a Pullman train."
"I'm sure I can't imagine," said the other; "and what's more, I'm content to wait and find out. Of course you are going?"
"I am, indeed," said Mr. Brief. "I'd travel farther than that for the pleasure of an hour with the dear old boy, and particularly now that he has so good a cook. Dined there lately?"
"Yes," said the Genial Old Gentleman.
"Had any of those mulled sardines he gives you Sunday nights?"
"More than was good for me. Ain't they fine?" said the Genial Old Gentleman, smacking his lips ecstatically.
"Immense!" said Mr. Brief. "A cook that can mull sardines like that is worth her weight in gold. Where do you suppose he got her?"
"Why, he married her!" cried the Genial Old Gentleman, promptly. "Mrs. Idiot cooks those herself, on the chafing-dish. Didn't you know that?"
"No," said Mr. Brief. "I happened in late Sunday night, and we had 'em. They were so awfully good I didn't do a thing but eat, and forgot to ask who cooked 'em."