He is leaning upon the rail taking his last neck-breaking look at the Woolworth Building. The going-ashore bugle has sounded, pocket-handkerchiefs are waving; and Joe Hutton, the last visitor to leave the ship, is at the gangway.
"Good-by, Holworthy!" he calls. "Where do you keep yourself? Haven't seen you at the club in a year!"
"Haven't been there in a year—nor mean to!" is the ungracious reply of our hero.
"Then, for Heaven's sake," exclaims Hutton, "send some one to take your mail out of the H box! Every time I look for letters I wade through yours."
"Tear them up!" calls Holworthy. "They're bills."
Hutton now is half-way down the gangplank.
"Then your creditors," he shouts back, "must all live at the Alexander Young Hotel in Honolulu!"
That night an express train shrieking through the darkness carried with it toward San Francisco—
In this how evident is the fine Italian hand of the God of Coincidence!
Had Hutton's name begun with an M; had the H in Hutton been silent; had he not carried to the Mauretania a steamer basket for his rich aunt; had he not resented the fact that since Holworthy's election to the Van Sturtevant Club he had ceased to visit the Grill Club—a cure for sleeping sickness might have been discovered; but two loving hearts never would have been reunited and that story would not have been written.