Alphonse alighted promptly. He was a thin, dapper little man with a blasé superiority that was impressive as betokening a profound knowledge of the idiosyncrasies of motor-cars. He plainly had no faith in the old gentleman’s diagnosis. He approached the car and announced the trouble practically at once. "There is no gasolene." The old gentleman was not in the least perturbed over his own slight error in judgment. "A frequent, very frequent oversight," said he, rising. "We will tow you to the hotel, my dear sir. You can get the gasolene there." "Never mind," said the Watermelon. "I can hoof it." "Hoof it!" The old gentleman was pained and hurt. "Hoof it, when I have my car right here! No, indeed. Alphonse, get the rope." The Watermelon protested. "Aw, really, you know—" "Weren’t you going to the hotel?" "I was thinking some of it. But the car—" "Alphonse, get the rope. It will be a pleasure. We have always got to lend assistance to a broken car. We may be in the same fix ourselves some day." Alphonse brought the rope and the Watermelon watched them adjust it. When the last knot was tied to the old gentleman’s liking, he turned to the Watermelon and presented him with his card. The Watermelon took it and read the name, "Brig.-General Charles Montrose Grossman, U.S.A., Retired." Then, not to be outdone, he reached in the still unexplored pockets of his new clothes with confident ease, and finding a pocket-book drew it forth, opened it on the mere chance that there would be a card within, found one and presented it to the general with lofty unconcern, trusting that the general and the owner of the clothes were not acquainted. "William Hargrave Batchelor," read the general aloud, while his round fat face beamed with pleasure. "I have heard about you, sir, and am glad to make your acquaintance." The Watermelon grasped the extended hand and wrung it with fervor. "The pleasure is all mine," said he with airy grace and sublime self-assurance. "Let me present you to my daughter. Henrietta, this is young Mr. Batchelor of New York. You have read about him, my dear, in the papers. He broke the cotton ring on Wall Street last week. You may remember. Miss Grossman, Mr. Batchelor." The girl put out her hand and the Watermelon shook it. Her hand was slender and white, soft as velvet and well cared for. The Watermelon’s was big and brown and coarse, and entirely neglected as to the nails. Henrietta noticed it with fastidious amusement. William Hargrave Batchelor was not in her estimation, formed from the little she had read about him in the papers, a gentleman. He had started life as a newsboy on the streets of New York, and doubtless had not had his suddenly acquired wealth long enough to be familiar with the small niceties of life. Besides, he was so young and so good-looking, one could forgive him a great deal more than dirty nails.