The gentleman in question is fat, jolly--when off duty--and a _bon vivant_ of the ideal type. He is a ubiquitous sort of chap, and I find myself stumbling over him quite frequently--in the most unexpected places and under the most embarrassing circumstances. No social gathering seems to be complete without him--much to my discomfiture. Words cannot express the embarrassment I have suffered at the hands of my fat friend. The worst of the matter is that the fellow really likes me--you needn’t smile, gentle reader; his fondness does not depend upon reasons of a business nature; he likes me for myself alone. It will be seen, therefore, that I cannot afford to say anything which might by any possibility offend him. Aside from his affection for me, there is another motive which impels me to avoid personalities--he is high-strung and sensitive to a degree, and, if report speaks true, an expert boxer. To be sure, those whom he has boxed have said nothing about his proficiency, but where one’s own personal safety is concerned one is justified in giving due weight even to idle rumor. Now, it may seem strange that I should find fault with a man who has so sincere a regard for me as my fat friend, but, you know, even affection may be over done. When a fellow dresses up on Sunday preparatory to calling on his best girl, and his pet dog lavishes caresses with his muddy paws on those eleven dollar lavender trousers, patience ceases to be a virtue--and the comparison is by no means far-fetched. Whenever I board a crowded street car, that obese mortuary fiend is always aboard--and at the end of the car farthest from me. He never fails to see and recognize me, although I go through as many motions as a professional contortionist in the vain and frantic effort to avoid recognition. And then you should hear him yell, “Hello, Doc! How are all the folks?” I assure him that I am greatly obliged for his rather suggestive solicitude for the welfare of my family, and that the folks are all well. He next asks me how business is, and when I answer, “First rate,” with a tone of sorrowing reproof he informs me that it is “very quiet with _him_.” As if his business is not supposed to be invariably quiet! The party sitting next me leaves the car; the undertaker pushes through the crowd and with a “How d’ye do, old man?” and an ostentatious pump-handle shake of my hand that almost costs me several fingers, takes the vacant seat beside me. And now comes a conversation--his part of which is audible to everybody on the car--relative to the “last case we had together.” The brute even mentions the party’s name, which, if it happens to be a well known one, excites the rapt attention of everybody within earshot. He next proceeds to ask me to dine with him “to-morrow” and comments on the “elegant time we had together last week.”