He came to a prominent hotel and went into the lobby, looking in vain for some friend of the old days with whom he could spend an hour or so. Down in Honduras he had had his million and friends, too; and here, in his old home, he had nothing but his money. At this hour, down in Honduras, the band would be playing in the plaza, and society would be out in force. There would be a soft breeze sweeping down from the hills, bringing a thousand odors that could not be detected in New York. Here and there guitars would be tinkling, and men and maidens would be meeting in the moonlight. There would be a happy crowd at a certain club he knew, at which he always had been made welcome. A man could sit out on the veranda and look over the tumbling sea, and hear the ship's bells strike. Sidney Prale found himself just a bit homesick for Honduras. "Got to get over it," he told himself. "No sense in feeling this way. I'll have a hundred friends before I've been in town a month!" He went out upon the street, made his way down it, and dropped in at another hotel. There he saw Rufus Shepley sitting in an easy-chair, smoking and looking at an evening paper. Well, he knew Shepley, at least. Shepley was only a steamship acquaintance, but he was a human being and could talk. Prale was just a bit tired of confining his conversation to waiters and cigar-store clerks. He stopped before Shepley and cleared his throat. "Well, we meet again, Mr. Shepley!" he said. Rufus Shepley looked up, and then sprang to his feet, but his face did not light and he did not extend a hand in greeting. Instead, his countenance grew crimson, and he seemed to be shaking with anger. "You presume too much on a chance acquaintance, sir!" Rufus Shepley thundered. "I do not wish you to address me again--do you understand, sir? Never again--either in public or private!" "Why----" Prale stammered. "I don't want anything to do with a man of your stamp!" Rufus Shepley went on. "Ten years in Honduras, were you? We all know why men go to Honduras and spend years there." Shepley had raised his voice, and all in the lobby could hear. Men began moving toward them, and women began walking away, fearing a scene and a quarrel. Sidney Prale's face had flushed, too, and he felt his anger rising again. "I am sure I do not wish to continue the acquaintance if you do not, sir," he said. "I can be courteous, at least." "Some men are not entitled to courtesy," Shepley roared. "What do you mean by that?" Prale demanded. "I mean that I don't want anything to do with you, that's all! I don't want you to speak to me again! I don't want anybody to know that you even know me by sight!" "See here!" Prale cried. "You can't talk to me like that without giving me some explanation! You can't defame me before other men----" "Defame you?" Shepley cried. "You can't make a tar brush black, sir?" Rage was seething in Prale now. There was quite a crowd around them, and others were making their way forward.