The year after the war I had--let me think--two or three.

Your friend--was he the little lame one who waited beautiful at table, but that he cough, cough, till I must send him away ?" "No; that's not the one." "Then it was the fat one ?--John Bull, we call him, who eat more than he served, never used a fork when he had his fingers.

Ah, he was a dirty one, was your friend!" "No," said Roger; "that's not he.

My friend was not much older than I am, and a gentleman." "A gentleman--and a waiter!" laughed the landlady.

"But tell me, what was his name ?" "He used to call himself Rogers." She shook her head.
"No one of that name was here.