“Once in a while.  You know,” said I, lighting a cigarette, “all the fellows but you and I had money.  Most of them are carrying on the business of their paters and ornamenting dinner parties and cotillions.”

“I thought that you had a rich uncle,” said Dan.

“I did have, but he is no more,” and I told him all about the bequest.

He laughed so long and heartily over it that I was glad for his sake that it had happened.  Already I was beginning to look wholly upon the humorous side of the affair.

“It is almost too good not to be printed,” he said.  “But his son may square matters when he dies.”

“I do not want matters squared,” I growled.  “I can earn a living for a few years to come.  I shan’t worry.”

“By the way, is that Miss Landors whom you used to rave about in your letters married yet?”

“No.”  Miss Landors was Phyllis only to her intimate friends.  I called the waiter and ordered him to replenish my stein, Dan watching me curiously the while.  “No, Miss Landors is not married yet.”

“I have often wondered what she looked like,” he mused.

“When do you go on your vacation?” I asked irrelevantly.

“In a week or ten days; may be to-morrow.  It’s according to how long I stay sober.”

I was sorry that he had recalled to me the name of Phyllis.  It dampened my sociability.  I was not yet prepared to take him into my confidence.  The ale, however, loosened our tongues, and though we did not talk about our present affairs we had a pleasant time recounting the days when we were young in the sense that we had no real trouble.  Those were the times when we were earning fifteen and twenty the week; when our watches were always in durance vile; when we lied to the poor washerwoman and to the landlady; when we would always be “around to-morrow” and “settle up” with our creditors.

“There was no ennui those days,” laughed Hillars.

“True.  Do you remember the day you stayed in bed because it was cheaper to sleep than work on an empty stomach?”

“And do you remember the time I saved you from jail by giving the Sheriff my new spring overcoat to pay a washerwoman’s bill of six months’ standing?”

“I hung around Jersey City that day,” said I. And then there was more ale; and so on.  It was nine when at last we rose.

“Well, we’ll go back to the office and get your case,” said Dan.  “Where’s your trunk?”

“At the Victoria.”

“All your luggage must be sent to my rooms.  I will not hear of your going elsewhere for lodging while in town.  I have a floor, and you shall share it.  It’s a bachelor’s ranch from basement to garret, inhabited by artists, journalists, one or two magazine men, a clever novelist, and three of our New York men.  There is no small fry save myself.  We have little banquets every Friday night, and they sometimes last till Saturday noon.