As I rose to go Pickering said:
“It will be sufficient if you drop me a line, say once a month, to let me know you are there. The post-office is Annandale.”
“I suppose I might file a supply of postal cards in the village and arrange for the mailing of one every month.”
“It might be done that way,” be answered evenly.
“We may perhaps meet again, if I don’t die of starvation or ennui. Good-by.”
We shook hands stiffly and I left him, going down in an elevator filled with eager-eyed, anxious men. I, at least, had no cares of business. It made no difference to me whether the market rose or fell. Something of the spirit of adventure that had been my curse quickened in my heart as I walked through crowded Broadway past Trinity Church to a bank and drew the balance remaining on my letter of credit. I received in currency slightly less than one thousand dollars.
As I turned from the teller’s window I ran into the arms of the last man in the world I expected to see.
This, let it be remembered, was in October of the year of our Lord, nineteen hundred and one.