“Nope.” Mr. Wrenn felt lonely at finding himself so completely outside Morton’s own world that he was not thought of. He hastened to claim a part in that world: “Say, Mr. Morton, I wonder if you’ve ever heard of a cattle-boat called the _Merian?_” “I—Say! Is this Bill Wrenn?” “Yes.” “Well, well, well! Where are you? When’d you get back?” “Oh, I been back quite a little while, Morty. Tried to get hold of you—almost called up couple of times. I’m in my office—Souvenir Company—now. Back on the old job. Say, I’d like to see you.” “Well, I’d like to see _you_, old Bill!” “Got a date for dinner this evening, Morty?” “N-no. No, I don’t _think_ I’ve got anything on.” Morton’s voice seemed to sound a doubt. Mr. Wrenn reflected that Morton must be a society person; and he made his invitation highly polite: “Well, say, old man, I’d be awful happy if you could come over and feed on me. Can’t you come over and meet me, Morty?” “Y-yes, I guess I can. Yes, I’ll do it. Where’ll I meet you?” “How about Twenty-eighth and Sixth Avenue?” “That’ll be all right, Bill. ’Bout six o’clock?” “Fine! Be awful nice to see you again, old Morty.” “Same here. Goo’-by.” Gazing across the table at Miggleton’s, Mr. Wrenn saw, in the squat familiar body and sturdy face of Morton of the cattle-boat, a stranger, slightly uneasy and very quiet, wearing garments that had nothing whatever to do with the cattle-boats—a crimson scarf with a horseshoe-pin of “Brazilian diamonds,” and sleek brown ready-made clothes with ornately curved cuffs and pocket flaps. Morton would say nothing of his wanderings after their parting in Liverpool beyond: “Oh, I just bummed around. Places…. Warm to-night. For this time of year.” Thrice he explained, “I was kind of afraid you’d be sore at me for the way I left you; that’s why I’ve never looked you up.” Thrice Mr. Wrenn declared that he had not been “sore,” then ceased trying to make himself understood. Their talk wilted. Both of them played with their knives a good deal. Morton built a set of triangles out of toothpicks while pretending to give hushed attention to the pianist’s rendition of “Mammy’s Little Cootsie Bootsie Coon,” while Mr. Wrenn stared out of the window as though he expected to see the building across get afire immediately. When either of them invented something to say they started chattering with guilty haste, and each agreed hectically with any opinion the other advanced. Mr. Wrenn surprised himself in the thought that Morton hadn’t anything very new to say, which made him feel so disloyal that he burst out, effusively: “Say, come on now, old man; I just got to hear about what you did after you left Liverpool.” “I—” “Well—” “I never got out of Liverpool! Worked in a restaurant…. But next time—! I’ll go clean to Constantinople!” Morton exploded. “And I did see a lot of English life in Liverpool.” Mr. Wrenn talked long and rapidly of the world’s baseball series, and Regal _vs._ Walkover shoes.