The orders—yes, they were growing larger. The Southern salesmen took him out to dinner sometimes. But he was shy of them. They were so knowing and had so many smoking-room stories. He still had not found the friends he desired. Miggleton’s restaurant, on Forty-second Street, was a romantic discovery. Though it had “popular prices”—plain omelet, fifteen cents—it had red and green bracket lights, mission-style tables, and music played by a sparrowlike pianist and a violinist. Mr. Wrenn never really heard the music, but while it was quavering he had a happier appreciation of the Silk-Hat-Harry humorous pictures in the _Journal_, which he always propped up against an oil-cruet. [That never caused him inconvenience; he had no convictions in regard to salads.] He would drop the paper to look out of the window at the Lazydays Improvement Company’s electric sign, showing gardens of paradise on the instalment plan, and dream of—well, he hadn’t the slightest idea what—something distant and deliciously likely to become intimate. Once or twice he knew that he was visioning the girl in soft brown whom he would “go home to,” and who, in a Lazydays suburban residence, would play just such music for him and the friends who lived near by. She would be as clever as Istra, but “oh, more so’s you can go regular places with her.”… Often he got good ideas about letters South, to be jotted down on envelope backs, from that music. At last comes the historic match-box incident. On that October evening in 1910 he dined early at Miggleton’s. The thirty-cent table d’hote was perfect. The cream-of-corn soup was, he went so far as to remark to the waitress, “simply slick”; the Waldorf salad had two whole walnuts in his portion alone. The fat man with the white waistcoat, whom he had often noted as dining in this same corner of the restaurant, smiled at him and said “Pleasant evening” as he sat down opposite Mr. Wrenn and smoothed the two sleek bangs which decorated the front of his nearly bald head. The music included a “potpourri of airs from ‘The Merry Widow,’” which set his foot tapping. All the while he was conscious that he’d made the Seattle Novelty and Stationery Corner Store come through with a five-hundred-dollar order on one of his letters. The _Journal_ contained an editorial essay on “Friendship” which would have been, and was, a credit to Cicero. He laid down the paper, stirred his large cup of coffee, and stared at the mother-of-pearl buttons on the waistcoat of the fat man, who was now gulping down soup, opposite him. “My land!” he was thinking, “friendship! I ain’t even begun to make all those friends I was going to. Haven’t done a thing. Oh, I will; I must!” “Nice night,” said the fat man. “Yuh—it sure is,” brightly agreed Mr. Wrenn. “Reg’lar Indian-Summer weather.” “Yes, isn’t it! I feel like taking a walk on Riverside Drive—b’lieve I will.” “Wish I had time. But I gotta get down to the store—cigar-store. I’m on nights, three times a week.”