"Not the pleasure of my acquaintance!" repeated the stranger, with a loud laugh. "Well, Joe, that seems funny, anyhow!" He appealed to his companion, who concurred in the opinion, and they both laughed heartily. This was all very funny to the strangers, but not at all so to Grimaldi: he had a vague idea that they were rather laughing at than with him, and as much offended as surprised, was turning away, when the person who had spoken first said, in rather a tremulous voice, "Joe, don't you know me now?" He turned, and gazed at him again. He had opened his shirt, and was pointing to a scar upon his breast, the sight of which at once assured him that it was no other than his brother who stood before him,--his only brother, who had disappeared under the circumstances narrated in an earlier part of these memoirs. They were naturally much affected by this meeting, especially the elder brother, who had been so suddenly summoned into the presence of the near relative whom long ago he had given up for lost. They embraced again and again, and gave vent to their feelings in tears. "Come up stairs," said Grimaldi, as soon as the first surprise was over; "Mr. Wroughton is there--Mr. Wroughton, who was the means of your going to sea,--he'll be delighted to see you." The brothers were hurrying away, when the friend, whose presence they had quite forgotten in their emotion, said, "Well, John, then I'll wish you good night!" "Good night! good night!" said the other, shaking his hand; "I shall see you in the morning." "Yes," replied the friend; "at ten, mind!" "At ten precisely: I shall not forget," answered John. The friend, to whom he had not introduced his brother in any way, departed; and they went upon the stage together, where Grimaldi introduced his brother to Powell, Bannister, Wroughton, and many others in the green-room, who, attracted by the singularity of his return under such circumstances, had collected round them. Having his stage business to attend to, he had very little time for conversation; but of course he availed himself of every moment that he could spare off the stage, and in answer to his inquiries, his brother assured him that his trip had been eminently successful. "At this moment," he said, slapping his breast-pocket, "I have six hundred pounds here." "Why, John," said his brother, "it's very dangerous to carry so much money about with you!" "Dangerous!" replied John, smiling; "we sailors know nothing about danger. But, my lad, even if all this were gone, I should not be penniless." And he gave a knowing wink, which induced his brother to believe that he had indeed "made a good trip of it."