“Singer Tower…. Butterick Building,” he murmured, as they proceeded toward their dock. “That’s something like…. Let’s see; yes, sir, by golly, right up there between the Met. Tower and the _Times_—good old Souvenir Company office. Jiminy! ‘One Dollar to Albany’—something _like_ a sign, that is—good old dollar! To thunder with their darn shillings. Home!… Gee! there’s where I used to moon on a wharf!… Gosh! the old town looks good.” And all this was his to conquer, for friendship’s sake. He went to a hotel. While he had to go back to the Zapps’, of course, he did not wish, by meeting those old friends, to spoil his first day. No, it was cheerfuler to stand at a window of his cheap hotel on Seventh Avenue, watching the “good old American crowd”—Germans, Irishmen, Italians, and Jews. He went to the Nickelorion and grasped the hand of the ticket-taker, the Brass-button Man, ejaculating: “How are you? Well, how’s things going with the old show?… I been away couple of months.” “Fine and dandy! Been away, uh? Well, it’s good to get back to the old town, heh? Summer hotel?” “Unk?” “Why, you’re the waiter at Pat Maloney’s, ain’t you?” Next morning Mr. Wrenn made himself go to the Souvenir and Art Novelty Company. He wanted to get the teasing, due him for staying away so short a time, over as soon as possible. The office girl, addressing circulars, seemed surprised when he stepped from the elevator, and blushed her usual shy gratitude to the men of the office for allowing her to exist and take away six dollars weekly. Then into the entry-room ran Rabin, one of the traveling salesmen. “Why, hul-lo, Wrenn! Wondered if that could be you. Back so soon? Thought you were going to Europe.” “Just got back. Couldn’t stand it away from you, old scout!” “You must have been learning to sass back real smart, in the Old Country, heh? Going to be with us again? Well, see you again soon. Glad see you back.” He was not madly excited at seeing Rabin; still, the drummer was part of the good old Souvenir Company, the one place in the world on which he could absolutely depend, the one place where they always wanted him. He had been absently staring at the sample-tables, noting new novelties. The office girl, speaking sweetly, but as to an outsider, inquired, “Who did you wish to see, Mr. Wrenn?” “Why! Mr. Guilfogle.” “He’s busy, but if you’ll sit down I think you can see him in a few minutes.” Mr. Wrenn felt like the prodigal son, with no calf in sight, at having to wait on the callers’ bench, but he shook with faint excited gurgles of mirth at the thought of the delightful surprise Mr. Mortimer R. Guilfogle, the office manager, was going to have. He kept an eye out for Charley Carpenter. If Charley didn’t come through the entry-room he’d go into the bookkeeping-room, and—“talk about your surprises—” “Mr. Guilfogle will see you now,” said the office girl. As he entered the manager’s office Mr. Guilfogle made much of glancing up with busy amazement.