It seemed to me an opportunity to clarify the situation. We were on land. We were in New York. It was hardly fair to these good people to let them think that our association could continue on the same terms as at sea. Somewhere in the back of my strained mind was the fact that I had formerly classed myself as a snob and had been proud of the appellation. That is, I had been fastidious as to whom I should know and whom I should not know. I had been an adept in the art of cutting those who had been forced or had forced themselves upon me, and had regarded this skill as an accomplishment. Finding myself on board ship, and in a peculiar situation, I had carried myself as a gentleman should, even toward Mr. Finnegan and Miss Mulberry. That part had been relatively easy. It was more difficult to dispose of the kindly interest of the Averills. He had made more than one approach which I parried tactfully. Mrs. Averill had contented herself with disquieting looks from her almond eyes, though one day she had stopped me on deck with the condescending inquiries as to my health that one puts to a friend’s butler. Miss Averill had been more direct—sensible, solicitous, and rich in a shy sympathy. One day, on entering the saloon, I found her examining some rugs which a Persian passenger was displaying in the interests of trade. Being called by her into council, I helped her to choose between a Herati and a Sarouk, the very names of which she had never heard. My connoisseurship impressed her. After that she spoke to me frequently, and once recommended the employment bureau of her Settlement, in case I were looking for work. All this I had struggled with, sometimes irritated, sometimes grimly amused, but always ill at ease. Now it was over. I should never see the Averills again, and Drinkwater must be given to understand that he, too, was an incident. "My dear fellow, there are no pretenses. We simply met on board ship, and because of your—your accident I’m seeing you to your door. That’s all. It doesn’t constitute friendship." "You bet it does," was his unexpected rejoinder. "I’m not that kind at all. When a fellow’s white with me, he’s white. I’m not going to be ashamed of him. If you ever want any one to hold the sponge for you, Jasper—" I repeated stupidly, "Hold the sponge?" "Go bail for you—do anything. I couldn’t go bail for you on my own, of course; but I could hustle round and get some one to do it. Lydia Blair knows a lot of people—and there’s the doctor. Say, Jasper, I’m your friend, and I’m going to stand by the contract." The taxi lumbered on again, while I was debating with myself as to what to say next, or whether or not to say anything. One thing was clear, that no matter what fate awaited me I couldn’t have Drinkwater holding the sponge for me, nor could I appear in court, or anywhere else, with a man of his class as my backer. We were lurching into Broadway when he grasped me suddenly by the arm, to say: