American Hotel, Hoboken, to its private list of places where it has
been serenely happy. Consider corned beef hash, with fried egg,
excellent, for 25 cents. Consider rhubarb pie, quite adequate, for
10 cents. Consider the courteous and urbane waiter. In one corner of
the dining room was the hotel office, with a large array of push
buttons communicating with the bedrooms. The club, its imagination
busy, conceived that these were for the purpose of awakening
seafaring guests early in the morning, so as not to miss their ship.
If we were, for instance, second mate of the _Hauppauge_, and came
to port in Hoboken, The American Hotel would be just the place where
we would want to put up.

That brings us back to the _Hauppauge_. We wonder who bought her,
and how much he paid; and why she carries the odd name of that Long
Island village? If he would only invite us over to see her--and tell
us how to get there!


[Illustration]



THE CLUB AT ITS WORST


A barbecue and burgoo of the Three Hours for Lunch Club was held,
the club's medical adviser acting as burgoomaster and Mr. Lawton
Mackall, the managing director, as jest of honour. The news that
Lawton was at large spread rapidly through the city, and the club
was trailed for some distance by an infuriated agent of the Society