He was as yet far from being hopeless. Indeed, his mood at this point might have been called optimistic; for he realised that, if this disaster had been decreed by fate from the beginning of time--and he supposed it had been, though that palmist had made no mention of it--it could hardly have happened at a more convenient spot. The Old Wrykynian dinner had only just broken up, which meant that this portion of London must be full of men who had been at school with him and would doubtless be delighted to help him out with a temporary loan. At any moment now he might run into some kindly old schoolfellow. And almost immediately he did. Or, rather, the old schoolfellow ran into him. He had reached the Vaudeville Theatre and had paused, debating within himself the advisability of crossing the street and seeing how the hunting was on the other side, when a solid body rammed him in the back. “Oh, sorry! Frightfully sorry! I say, awfully sorry!” It was a voice which had been absent from Sam’s life for some years, but he recognised it almost before he had recovered his balance. He wheeled joyfully round on the stout and red-faced young man who was with some difficulty retrieving his hat from the gutter. “Excuse me,” he said, “but you are extraordinarily like a man I used to know named J. W. Braddock.” “I am J. W. Braddock.” “Ah,” said Sam, “that accounts for the resemblance.” He contemplated his erstwhile study companion with affection. He would have been glad at any time to meet the old Bradder, but he was particularly glad to meet him now. As Mr. Braddock himself might have put it, he was glad, delighted, pleased, happy and overjoyed. Willoughby Braddock, bearing out the words of the two exquisites, was obviously in a somewhat vinous condition, but Sam was no Puritan and was not offended by this. The thing about Mr. Braddock that impressed itself upon him to the exclusion of all else was the fact that he looked remarkably rich. He had that air, than which there is none more delightful, of being the sort of man who would lend a fellow a fiver without a moment’s hesitation. Willoughby Braddock had secured his hat, and he now replaced it in a sketchy fashion on his head. His face was flushed, and his eyes, always slightly prominent, seemed to protrude like those of a snail--and an extremely inebriated snail, at that. “Imarraspeesh,” he said. “I beg your pardon?” said Sam. “I made a speesh.” “Yes, so I heard.” “You heard my speesh?” “I heard that you had made one.” “How did you hear my speesh?” said Mr. Braddock, plainly mystified. “You weren’t at the dinner.” “No, but----” “You couldn’t have been at the dinner,” proceeded Mr. Braddock, reasoning closely, “because evening dress was obliggery and you aren’t obliggery. I’ll tell you what--between you and me, I don’t know who the deuce you are.” “You don’t know me?” “No, I don’t know you.” “Pull yourself together, Bradder. I’m Sam Shotter.” “Sham Sotter?”