And that completed the rout of that conductor. He retired in disorder, leaving Marjorie to fondle Snoozleums with a neglectful indifference that would have greatly flattered Mallory, if he could have seen through the partition that divided them.
But he was witnessing with the cynical superiority of an aged and disillusioned man the, to him, childish behavior of Ira Lathrop, an eleventh-hour Orlando.
For just as Mallory moped into the smoking-room at one door, Ira Lathrop swept in at the other, his face rubicund with embarrassment and ecstasy. He had donned an old frock coat with creases like ruts from long exile in his trunk. But he was feeling like an heir apparent; and he startled everybody by his jovial hail:
"Well, boys—er—gentlemen—the drinks are on me. Waiter, take the orders."
Little Jimmie woke with a start, rose hastily to his feet and saluted, saying: "Present! Who said take the orders?"
"I did," said Lathrop, "I'm giving a party. Waiter, take the orders."
"Sarsaparilla," said Dr. Temple, but they howled him down and ordered other things. The porter shook his head sadly: "Nothin' but sof' drinks in Utah, gemmen."
A groan went up from the club-members, and Lathrop groaned loudest of all:
"Well, we've got to drink something. Take the orders. We'll all have sarsaparilla."
Little Jimmie Wellington came to the rescue.