An hour later Jimmy turned into Broadway. He walked pensively, for he had much to occupy his mind. How strange that the Petts should have come over to England to try to induce him to return to New York, and how galling that, now that he was in New York, this avenue to a prosperous future was closed by the fact that something which he had done five years ago--that he could remember nothing about it was quite maddening--had caused Ann to nurse this abiding hatred of him. He began to dream tenderly of Ann, bumping from pedestrian to pedestrian in a gentle trance. From this trance the seventh pedestrian aroused him by uttering his name, the name which circumstances had compelled him to abandon. "Jimmy Crocker!" Surprise brought Jimmy back from his dreams to the hard world--surprise and a certain exasperation. It was ridiculous to be incognito in a city which he had not visited in five years and to be instantly recognised in this way by every second man he met. He looked sourly at the man. The other was a sturdy, square-shouldered, battered young man, who wore on his homely face a grin of recognition and regard. Jimmy was not particularly good at remembering faces, but this person's was of a kind which the poorest memory might have recalled. It was, as the advertisements say, distinctively individual. The broken nose, the exiguous forehead, and the enlarged ears all clamoured for recognition. The last time Jimmy had seen Jerry Mitchell had been two years before at the National Sporting Club in London, and, placing him at once, he braced himself, as a short while ago he had braced himself to confound immaculate Reggie. "Hello!" said the battered one. "Hello indeed!" said Jimmy courteously. "In what way can I brighten your life?" The grin faded from the other's face. He looked puzzled. "You're Jimmy Crocker, ain't you?" "No. My name chances to be Algernon Bayliss." Jerry Mitchell reddened. "'Scuse me. My mistake." He was moving off, but Jimmy stopped him. Parting from Ann had left a large gap in his life, and he craved human society. "I know you now," he said. "You're Jerry Mitchell. I saw you fight Kid Burke four years ago in London." The grin returned to the pugilist's face, wider than ever. He beamed with gratification. "Gee! Think of that! I've quit since then. I'm working for an old guy named Pett. Funny thing, he's Jimmy Crocker's uncle that I mistook you for. Say, you're a dead ringer for that guy! I could have sworn it was him when you bumped into me. Say, are you doing anything?" "Nothing in particular." "Come and have a yarn. There's a place I know just round by here." "Delighted." They made their way to the place. "What's yours?" said Jerry Mitchell. "I'm on the wagon myself," he said apologetically. "So am I," said Jimmy. "It's the only way. No sense in always drinking and making a disgraceful exhibition of yourself in public!"