"Pardon me, suh, but aren't you Mr. Mu'y Ten Eyck?"
"Yes," said Ten Eyck—simply that, and nothing more.
Forbes, nonplussed at the abrupt brevity of the answer, tried again:
"I reckon you don't remember me."
Ten Eyck showed a hint of interest. If he were a snob he blamed it on his own weaknesses.
"I seem to, but—well, I'm simply putrid at names and faces. A man pulled me out of the surf at Palm Beach last winter—I had a cramp, you know. I cut him dead two weeks later. When I knew what I had done I wished he had let me drown. So don't mind me if I don't remember you. Who are you? Did you ever save my life? Where was it we met?"
"It was in Manila. You were—"
"Oh, God bless me! You're Harvey Forbes—well, I'll be—" He reversed the prayer. "Of course it's you." He was cordial enough now as he clapped both hands on Forbes' shoulders. "But how the hell was I to know you all dolled up like this? I used to see you in uniform with cap and bronze buttons and sword and puttees. You were a lieutenant then. I dare say you're a colonel by now, what?" Forbes shook his head. "No? Well, you ought to be. You did save my life out in that Godforsaken hole. And now you're here! Well, I'll be—Let's have a drink."
"No, thank you!"
"Yes, thank you!" He hurried Forbes up the stairs, out into the street, and into a peacock-rivaling café. With one foot on the rail, one elbow on the bar, and one elbow crooked upward, they toasted each other in a hearty "How!" Then, with libations tossed inward, the old friendship was consecrated anew.