“It’s nothing,” said Reggie.  “I’m all right now.  I caught sight of that fellow’s clothes rather suddenly.  They shook me a bit.  I’m all right now,” he said, bravely.

Archie, following his friend’s gaze, understood.  Reggie van Tuyl was never at his strongest in the morning, and he had a sensitive eye for clothes.  He had been known to resign from clubs because members exceeded the bounds in the matter of soft shirts with dinner-jackets.  And the short, thick-set man who was standing just in front of them in attitude of restful immobility was certainly no dandy.  His best friend could not have called him dapper.  Take him for all in all and on the hoof, he might have been posing as a model for a sketch of What the Well-Dressed Man Should Not Wear.

In costume, as in most other things, it is best to take a definite line and stick to it.  This man had obviously vacillated.  His neck was swathed in a green scarf; he wore an evening-dress coat; and his lower limbs were draped in a pair of tweed trousers built for a larger man.  To the north he was bounded by a straw hat, to the south by brown shoes.

Archie surveyed the man’s back carefully.

“Bit thick!” he said, sympathetically.  “But of course Broadway isn’t Fifth Avenue.  What I mean to say is, Bohemian licence and what not.  Broadway’s crammed with deuced brainy devils who don’t care how they look.  Probably this bird is a master-mind of some species.”

“All the same, man’s no right to wear evening-dress coat with tweed trousers.”

“Absolutely not!  I see what you mean.”

At this point the sartorial offender turned.  Seen from the front, he was even more unnerving.  He appeared to possess no shirt, though this defect was offset by the fact that the tweed trousers fitted snugly under the arms.  He was not a handsome man.  At his best he could never have been that, and in the recent past he had managed to acquire a scar that ran from the corner of his mouth half-way across his cheek.  Even when his face was in repose he had an odd expression; and when, as he chanced to do now, he smiled, odd became a mild adjective, quite inadequate for purposes of description.  It was not an unpleasant face, however.  Unquestionably genial, indeed.  There was something in it that had a quality of humorous appeal.

Archie started.  He stared at the man, Memory stirred.

“Great Scot!” he cried.  “It’s the Sausage Chappie!”

Reginald van Tuyl gave a little moan.  He was not used to this sort of thing.  A sensitive young man as regarded scenes, Archie’s behaviour unmanned him.  For Archie, releasing his arm, had bounded forward and was shaking the other’s hand warmly.

“Well, well, well!  My dear old chap!  You must remember me, what?  No?  Yes?”

The man with the scar seemed puzzled.  He shuffled the brown shoes, patted the straw hat, and eyed Archie questioningly.

“I don’t seem to place you,” he said.