But presently the friend saw him, lifted his stick, and shook it amicably in greeting. He even crossed the road. Well, after all, he could scarcely do anything else. John had paid for his hansom only the evening before. He remembered vividly how, on the suggestion that they should drive, his friend had dived his hand into his pocket, shaken his bunch of keys and said, with obvious embarrassment, that he had run rather short of change. It always is change that one runs short of. Capital is never wanting. There is always a balance at the poor man’s bank, and the greater his pride the bigger the balance. But at that moment, John had been rich in change--that is to say, he had half a crown. "Oh--I’ve got heaps," he had said. It is permissible to talk of heaps when you have enough. And he had paid for the whole journey. It was not to be wondered at then, that his friend came amicably across the road. John greeted him lightly. "Going up to town?" "Yes--are you?" John nodded. "Are you lunching at the Club?" "No--I’ve got to meet some people at the Carlton--How’s the time--my watch is being mended." "I don’t know," said John--"my watch is all smashed up. It’s just on one I should think." "As much as that? I must be moving on. Shall we get on a ’bus?" The very thing. John acquiesced readily. He had nothing; a careful calculation of what he had spent that morning will account for that. But his friend could pay. It was his turn. They mounted the stairs and took a front seat behind the driver. "You’ll have to pay for me to-day," said John. "My pockets are empty till I get a cheque changed." The blood mounted to the face of his friend. For a moment he looked as though his beautiful hat were too tight for his head. He felt in his pocket. Then he produced a little stamp case, with gold mounted corners and one penny stamp inside. "I’m awfully sorry," said he--"I--I’ve only got a penny stamp." He rose quickly to his feet. John laughed--laughed loudly. "What are you going to do?" said he. "Well--get off," said his friend. "Sit down," said John--"there’s no hurry." "Have you got twopence, then?" "No--not a farthing. But we’re getting into Town, aren’t we? We’ve got nothing to grumble at." When the ’bus had travelled another hundred yards or so, John stood up. "Now, you come downstairs," said he. The friend followed obediently. The conductor was inside punching tickets. John looked in. "Does this ’bus go to Paddington Station?" he asked inquiringly. "No--Piccadilly Circus, Haymarket, and Strand." "What a nuisance," said John--"Come on--we’d better get off." They descended on to the road, and the friend, immaculate, top-hatted and befrocked, took his arm. "I see," he said, and he looked back to measure the distance with his eye. There are more people in London with only a penny in their pockets than you would imagine. CHAPTER XII THE CHAPEL OF UNREDEMPTION