“Hello,” cried this person, sharply. “Have the goodness to look where you are going, will you? It’s all right and proper, my friend, to carry as much excess as you can comfortably handle. But don’t try to shoulder any of it upon a man who has traveled much and is very tired.”
“I beg your pardon,” said Kenyon, stiffly.
The countenance of the other, in the ruddy flare of the cab lamps, suddenly expanded into a delighted grin.
“Why, dog-bust it, it’s Kenyon!” he almost shouted. “Shake!”
“Garry Webster!” Kenyon gripped the extended hand, equally delighted. “Why, old boy, this is a surprise.”
Webster shook Kenyon’s hand with the utmost vigor.
“Well, who would ever have thought to meet you here,” cried he. “It’s been all of ten years since I saw you last, Ken, and a good five since I heard from you; and here you all but knock the breath out of me before I’m in New York ten minutes. But I thought you were doing stunts in South America with a machine gun and a backing of barefooted patriots.”
“So I was, until a few weeks ago, but—”
“Hold on, tell me about it later. Pile in here,” drawing him toward the cab door; “kick those bags and things out of the way. I’m for the Waldorf, and the biggest breakfast they’ve got in the place.”
A feeling of faintness in the stomach told Kenyon that breakfast was a thing that he stood rather in need of himself. So he got into the cab with Webster and they bore down upon the hotel.