The heavens might drop at my feet and I could better believe the sight than what now met my eyes. A portly gentleman, with the native swagger and sure mien of a thoroughbred aristocrat, mounted the hotel steps. A hush fell upon the surrounding chatter. And here came my shock. He was none other than Crowther, the football player, whom I had known a decade before at the University of Virginia. In those days of youthful cynicism, some students used to say that Crowther played football for money. No matter; here he was now, with a string of obsequious friends, ladies and gentlemen, following in his wake. Reporters to the right of him, photographers before him, lackeys behind him. He held a levee on the porch steps for a few moments, and then came down the veranda where I was sitting, thus cutting off every means of escape. Not that I had the least idea that he would remember me, but still I did not care to give him the chance to forget me. He advanced cane in hand. From his walk, it was evident that the heavy society act had become Crowther’s long suit. “Why, how do you do!” he said, holding out a tightly gloved hand. “I am glad to see you, Mr. Crowther;” I said, lying in spite of myself, for which of us is not affected by contact with powerful wealth. He sat down on the porch railing, and naturally I aped his example. “You ought to be a politician;” I said, laughing. “How’s that?” “Because you never forget a face. You have not seen me for over ten years.” “Speaking of remembering faces,” said he, tapping me with his cane, “whom do you think I once ran into four summers ago just as I have met you here.” “I can not imagine.” “It may be you won’t even remember his name--that queer stick--a--why I have forgotten it myself--oh, yes--Dun--Dunlevy, don’t you remember he used to sit with us at college?” “In the name of God tell me where he is.” “Oh, that I don’t know--so you recall him? Well, I met him over in England--down at Richmond, in Surrey. Did you ever hear of that famous hotel there, the Star and Garter?” “Yes,” I said, “Thackeray mentions it; and then I lived in Richmond once.” “Oh, did you really? Very good; then you know the spot. It was there I saw Dunlevy, wheeled around by an old darky.” “Wheeled about? Was he an invalid?” “He was suffering from locomotor ataxia, so I was told. Really, the poor chap aroused my pity, and I left my party of friends and went over to speak to him. He had never heard of me nor I of him since we left college. Think of that! And when I told him that I had become the largest pickle grower in the world, what do you think he said?” “Tell me?”