So the letter was prepared with great care and elaboration.  It was signed Alfred Fairchild, and was written in an easy and friendly spirit.  It stated that the bearer was the bosom friend of the writer’s son, and was of good parts and sterling character, and it begged the Commodore to be kind to the young stranger for the writer’s sake.  It went on to say, “You may have forgotten me, in this long stretch of time, but you will easily call me back out of your boyhood memories when I remind you of how we robbed old Stevenson’s orchard that night; and how, while he was chasing down the road after us, we cut across the field and doubled back and sold his own apples to his own cook for a hat-full of doughnuts; and the time that we——­” and so forth and so on, bringing in names of imaginary comrades, and detailing all sorts of wild and absurd and, of course, wholly imaginary schoolboy pranks and adventures, but putting them into lively and telling shape.

With all gravity Ed was asked if he would like to have a letter to Commodore Vanderbilt, the great millionaire.  It was expected that the question would astonish Ed, and it did.

“What?  Do you know that extraordinary man?”

“No; but my father does.  They were schoolboys together.  And if you like, I’ll write and ask father.  I know he’ll be glad to give it to you for my sake.”

Ed could not find words capable of expressing his gratitude and delight.  The three days passed, and the letter was put into his bands.  He started on his trip, still pouring out his thanks while he shook good-bye all around.  And when he was out of sight his comrades let fly their laughter in a storm of happy satisfaction—­and then quieted down, and were less happy, less satisfied.  For the old doubts as to the wisdom of this deception began to intrude again.

Arrived in New York, Ed found his way to Commodore Vanderbilt’s business quarters, and was ushered into a large anteroom, where a score of people were patiently awaiting their turn for a two-minute interview with the millionaire in his private office.  A servant asked for Ed’s card, and got the letter instead.  Ed was sent for a moment later, and found Mr. Vanderbilt alone, with the letter—­open—­in his hand.

“Pray sit down, Mr. —­er—­”

“Jackson.”

" Ah—­sit down, Mr. Jackson.  By the opening sentences it seems to be a letter from an old friend.  Allow me—­I will run my eye through it.  He says he says—­why, who is it?” He turned the sheet and found the signature.  “Alfred Fairchild—­hm—­Fairchild—­I don’t recall the name.  But that is nothing—­a thousand names have gone from me.  He says—­he says-hm-hmoh, dear, but it’s good!  Oh, it’s rare!  I don’t quite remember it, but I seem to it’ll all come back to me presently.  He says —­he says—­hm—­hm-oh, but that was a game!  Oh, spl-endid!  How it carries me back!  It’s all dim, of course it’s a long time ago—­and the names—­some