Soon there entered another American, and by that mental telepathy which inevitably attracts like-spirit to like-spirit he was drawn to the spot where the first American sat.  He introduced himself as one feeling the need of congenial companionship, and they shook hands and exchanged names, and the first man asked the second man to be seated; so they sat together and had something together, and then something more together; and as the winged moments flew they grew momentarily more intimate.  Finally the newcomer said: 

“This seems a pretty lachrymose shop.  Suppose we go elsewhere and look for some real doings.”

“Your proposition interests me strangely,” said the first man; “but there are two reasons—­both good ones—­why I may not fare forth with you.  Look under the table and you’ll see ’em.”

The second man looked and comprehended, for he was a married man himself; and he grasped the other’s hand in warm and comforting sympathy.

“Old Man,” he said—­for they had already reached the Old Man stage—­“don’t let that worry you.  Why, I’ve got more pants than any man with only one set of legs has any right to have.  I’ve got pants that’ve never been worn.  You stay right here and don’t move until I come back.  My hotel is just round the corner from here.”

No sooner said than done.  He went and in a surprisingly short time was back, bearing spare trousers with him.  Beneath the shielding protection of the table draperies the succored one slipped them on, and they were a perfect fit.  Now he was ready to go where adventure might await them.  They tarried, though, to finish the last bottle.

Over the rim of his glass the second man ventured an opinion on a topic of the day.  Instantly the first man challenged him.  It seemed to him inconceivable that a person with intelligence enough to have amassed so many pairs of trousers should harbor such a delusion.  He begged of his new-found friend to withdraw the statement, or at least to abate it.  The other man was sorry, but he simply could not do it.  He stood ready to concede almost anything else, but on this particular point he was adamant; in fact, adamant was in comparison with him as pliable as chewing taffy.  Much as he regretted it, he could not modify his assertion by so much as one brief jot or one small tittle without violating the consistent principles of a consistent life.  He felt that way about it.  All his family felt that way about it.

“Then, sir,” said the first man with a rare dignity, “I regret to wound your feelings; but my sensibilities are such that I cannot accept, even temporarily, the use of a pair of trousers from the loan collection of a person who entertains such false and erroneous conceptions.  I have the pleasure, sir, of wishing you good night.”

With these words he shucked off the borrowed habiliments and slammed them into the abashed bosom of the obstinate stranger and went back to his captivity—­pantless, ’tis true, but with his honor unimpaired.