.
“All sorts of things happen in New York,” mused the agnostic Hathorn, as he handed the ladies into a waiting victoria and then turned to rejoin the man who more than ever had now decided to paddle a bit, as well as to drift on with the tide of fortune.
There was a glow of satisfaction burning in the Western adventurer’s heart as, half an hour later, he noted Hathorn dash off his potent signature behind his guest’s name on the visitor’s book of the Old York Club. It was the open sesame to the regions of the blest—young New York par excellence.
The trio adjourned to the billiard room, and, then and there, Vreeland for the first time tasted the famous club cocktail.
He was “living up to his blue china,” as he gravely bowed when Hathorn gave him a two-weeks’ card.
“I’ll have it renewed for you, old fellow,” lightly remarked the young banker.
“Pity our waiting list is so long. We must try to get your name advanced, by hook or crook.”
While Hathorn departed to give his personal orders for the dinner, Jimmy Potter drew apart to glance over a handful of cards, letters and billets
d’amour which a grave old club steward had handed to him.
He critically selected two, the missives of “she who must be obeyed,” and then carelessly slipped the fardel of the others into the oblivion of his breast pocket.