Mr. McEachern was staring horribly at Jimmy, who had risen to his feet. "How do you do, Mr. McEachern?" The ex-policeman continued to stare. "Father," said Molly in distress. "Father, let me present--I mean, don't you remember Jimmy? You must remember Jimmy, father! Jimmy Pitt, whom you used to know in New York." CHAPTER VI. On his native asphalt there are few situations capable of throwing the New York policeman off his balance. In that favored clime, _savoir faire_ is represented by a shrewd left hook at the jaw, and a masterful stroke of the truncheon amounts to a satisfactory repartee. Thus shall you never take the policeman of Manhattan without his answer. In other surroundings, Mr. Patrick McEachern would have known how to deal with his young acquaintance, Mr. Jimmy Pitt. But another plan of action was needed here. First of all, the hints on etiquette with which Lady Jane had favored him, from time to time, and foremost came the mandate: "Never make a scene." Scenes, Lady Jane had explained--on the occasion of his knocking down an objectionable cabman during their honeymoon trip--were of all things what polite society most resolutely abhorred. The natural man in him must be bound in chains. The sturdy blow must give way to the honeyed word. A cold "Really!" was the most vigorous retort that the best circles would countenance. It had cost Mr. McEachern some pains to learn this lesson, but he had done it; and he proceeded on the present occasion to conduct himself high and disposedly, according to instructions from headquarters. The surprise of finding an old acquaintance in this company rendered him dumb for a brief space, during which Jimmy looked after the conversation. "How do you do, Mr. McEachern?" inquired Jimmy genially. "Quite a surprise meeting you in England. A pleasant surprise. By the way, one generally shakes hands in the smartest circles. Yours seem to be down there somewhere. Might I trouble you? Right. Got it? Thanks!" He bent forward, possessed himself of Mr. McEachern's right hand, which was hanging limply at its proprietor's side, shook it warmly, and replaced it. "'Wahye?" asked Mr. McEachern gruffly, giving a pleasing air of novelty to the hackneyed salutation by pronouncing it as one word. He took some little time getting into his stride when carrying on polite conversation. "Very well, thank you. You're looking as strong as ever, Mr. McEachern." The ex-policeman grunted. In a conversational sense, he was sparring for wind. Molly had regained her composure by this time. Her father was taking the thing better than she had expected. "It's Jimmy, father, dear," she said. "Jimmy Pitt." "Dear old James," murmured the visitor. "I know, me dear, I know. Wahye?" "Still well," replied Jimmy cheerfully. "Sitting up, you will notice," he added, waving a hand in the direction of his teacup, "and taking nourishment. No further bulletins will be issued."