“Well, well, that’s funny,” said he, “I thought everyone ate pickles. Look, that’s his cottage over there on the point.”
“You mean that building that looks like a court house?”
“Well, yes, it cost more than most court-houses;” said he, “and if you wait here long enough you may see the commodore, for that’s his oldest son there on that polo pony. He’s J. Chester Crowther, and he must be waiting for his father.”
And then my proprietor suddenly deserted me. I saw the reason for his quick departure. A huge automobile, puffing the announcement of important arrivals, had drawn up at the door. Reporters and photographers hovered about it.
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.