Dibdin’s going so abruptly has left me very heavy at times upon my own hands. He had a way of dropping in unannounced when you least expected him, so that I came to count upon him at unexpected moments. There is no one to take his place. Now on clear evenings I ramble aimlessly northward and often turn in at the club, though so little have I been a frequenter of it I hardly know a soul in the place. Last night I ran into my classmate, Fred Salmon, for the first time in months. Fred is, I should say, my exact antithesis. He is full of laughter and noise and exuberance. Riches are his goal in life, and if he expended one half the vitality on the acquisition of riches that he devotes to the collection of humorous anecdotes, he would be a wealthy man to-day. "Hello, Ranny," he shouted when he saw me, "you’re just in time to join me in a little refreshment. What you doing now?" Luckily he seldom waits for an answer. With trained rapidity he gave his order to a waiter and continued, "Come across any rare editions lately, any fine copies, such as ’Skeezicks’ or ’Toodlums’ by Gazook?" "No," I told him, "my collection is lacking in those masterpieces." "Tell you what you ought to be, Ranny," he boomed, as the waiter put down the glasses. "You ought to be (here’s how!)—a bond salesman!" he decided after a pause and gulped down his liquor;—"or else a dog fancier." "Why those exalted callings?" I asked with only the mildest curiosity. "You are such a simp and you look so damn honest," he elucidated, "that anybody would believe anything you say." "Then will you believe me if I say I don’t want to be either of those things—or anything else?" "Oh, sure!" he responded heartily. "I know that all right. You haven’t got anything on me. I’d rather own a few good horses and follow the races round the tracks of the world, if I had my choice. Instead of which I’ve got to separate the world from enough dollars to keep me going. If ever you get hard up, Ran," he concluded reflectively, "let me know. I’ll set you up in the right game. Never make a mistake. I took a course in character reading for five dollars—by correspondence—that’s how I know so much." Dollars! Dollars! Dollars! Must every one then become merely a dollar-amassing machine? I remember Fred in college, ruddy with the freshness of youth, when he was making jokes for the _Lampoon_ and, so abundant was his energy, everybody expected him to do Great Things. And now he can talk of nothing but dollars—and he doesn’t seem to be oversupplied with those. I am nothing myself, but at least no one expected anything of me. Fred proposed that we play a game of poker, bridge, checkers or cribbage. But as none of those manly sports tempted me at the moment we parted and he cordially informed me that he would look me up one day.