‘Mr. Lloyd Hastings.’
The moment the usual civilities were over, Hastings caught sight of me, and came straight with cordially outstretched hand; then stopped short when about to shake, and said with an embarrassed look:
‘I beg your pardon, sir, I thought I knew you.’
‘Why, you do know me, old fellow.’
‘No! Are you the—the——?’
‘Vest-pocket monster? I am, indeed. Don’t be afraid to call me by my nickname; I’m used to it.’
‘Well, well, well, this is a surprise. Once or twice I’ve seen your own name coupled with the nickname, but it never occurred to me that you could be the Henry Adams referred to. Why, it isn’t six months since you were clerking away for Blake Hopkins in Frisco on a salary, and sitting up nights on an extra allowance, helping me arrange and verify the Gould and Curry Extension papers and statistics. The idea of your being in London, and a vast millionaire, and a colossal celebrity! Why, it’s the Arabian Nights come again. Man, I can’t take it in at all; can’t realise it; give me time to settle the whirl in my head.’
‘The fact is, Lloyd, you are no worse off than I am. I can’t realise it myself.’
‘Dear me, it is stunning, now, isn’t it? Why, it’s just three months to-day since we went to the Miners’ restaurant——’
‘No; the What Cheer.’