what's on the counter to-day?"

Jerry bustled proudly over to the free-lunch counter, whipped off
the steam-covers, and disclosed a fragrant joint of corned beef
nestling among cabbages and boiled potatoes. With the delight of
the true artist he seized a long narrow carving knife, gave it a
few passes along a steel, and sliced off generous portions of the
beef onto plates bearing the P. S. monogram. This they
supplemented with other selections from the liberally supplied
free-lunch counter. Soft, crumbling orange cheese, pickles, smoked
sardines, chopped liver, olives, pretzels--all the now-forgotten
appetizers were laid out on broad silver platters.

"I wish I could offer you a drink," said Bleak, "but as you know,
it would be unconstitutional. With your permission, I shall have
to have something. My office hours begin shortly, and some one
might come in."

He took up his station at the little bar behind the velvet cord,
and slid his left foot onto the miniature rail. Jerry, with the
air of an artist about to resume work on his favorite masterpiece,
stood expectant.

"A little Scotch, Jerry," said Bleak.

In the manner reminiscent of an elder day Jerry wiped away
imaginary moisture from the mahogany with a deft circular movement
of a white cloth. Turning to the gleaming pyramid of glassware, he
set out the decanter of whiskey, a small empty glass, and a twin
glass two-thirds full of water. His motions were elaborately