The Man With Two Left Feet

were going to make it an oasis in his life. He wanted it to be an occasion to which, in grey days to come, he could look back and be consoled. He could not let it be a failure.
    He was about to speak when the young man anticipated him. Leaning forward, he addressed the bearded man, who was crumbling bread with an absent look in his eyes.
    'Surely we have met before?' he said. 'I'm sure I remember your face.'
    The effect of these words on the other was as curious as the effect of Mr Birdsey's tap on the shoulder had been. He looked up like a hunted animal.
    He shook his head without speaking.
    'Curious,' said the young man. 'I could have sworn to it, and I am positive that it was somewhere in New York. Do you come from New York?'
    'Yes.'
    'It seems to me,' said Mr Birdsey, 'that we ought to introduce ourselves. Funny it didn't strike any of us before. My name is Birdsey, J. Wilmot Birdsey. I come from New York.'
    'My name is Waterall,' said the young man. 'I come from New York.'
    The bearded man hesitated.
    'My name is Johnson. I—used to live in New York.'
    'Where do you live now, Mr Johnson?' asked Waterall.
    The bearded man hesitated again. 'Algiers,' he said.
    Mr Birdsey was inspired to help matters along with small–talk.
    'Algiers,' he said. 'I have never been there, but I understand that it is quite a place. Are you in business there, Mr Johnson?'
    'I live there for my health.'
    'Have you been there some time?' inquired Waterall.
    'Five years.'
    'Then it must have been in New York that I saw you, for I have never been to Algiers, and I'm certain I have seen you somewhere. I'm afraid you will think me a bore for sticking to the point like this, but the fact is, the one thing I pride myself on is my memory for faces. It's a hobby of mine. If I think I remember a face, and can't place it, I worry myself into insomnia. It's partly sheer vanity, and partly because in my job a good memory for faces is a mighty fine asset. It has helped me a hundred times.'
    Mr Birdsey was an intelligent man, and he could see that Waterall's table–talk was for some reason getting upon Johnson's nerves. Like a good host, he endeavoured to cut in and make things smooth.
    'I've heard great accounts of Algiers,' he said helpfully. 'A friend of mine was there in his yacht last year. It must be a delightful spot.'
    'It's a hell on earth,' snapped Johnson, and slew the conversation on the spot.
    Through a grim silence an angel in human form fluttered in—a waiter bearing a bottle. The pop of the cork was more than music to Mr Birdsey's ears. It was the booming of the guns of the relieving army.
    The first glass, as first glasses will, thawed the bearded man, to the extent of inducing him to try and pick up the fragments of the conversation which he had shattered.
    'I am afraid you will have thought me abrupt, Mr Birdsey,' he said awkwardly; 'but then you haven't lived in Algiers for five years, and I have.'
    Mr Birdsey chirruped sympathetically.
    'I liked it at first. It looked mighty good to me. But five years of it, and nothing else to look forward to till you die…'
    He stopped, and emptied his glass. Mr Birdsey was still perturbed. True, conversation was proceeding in a sort of way, but it had taken a distinctly gloomy turn. Slightly flushed with the excellent champagne which he had selected for this important dinner, he endeavoured to lighten it.
    'I wonder,' he said, 'which of us three fans had the greatest difficulty in getting to the bleachers today. I guess none of us found it too easy.'
    The young man shook his head.
    'Don't count on me to contribute a romantic story to this Arabian Night's Entertainment. My difficulty would have been to stop away. My name's Waterall, and I'm the London correspondent of the
New York Chronicle
. I had to be there this afternoon in the way of business.'
    Mr Birdsey giggled self–consciously, but not without a certain impish pride.
    'The laugh will be on me when you hear my confession. My daughter married an English earl, and my wife brought me over here to mix with his crowd. There was a big dinner–party tonight, at which the whole gang were to be present, and it was as much as my life was worth to side–step it. But when you get the Giants and the White Sox playing ball within fifty miles of you—Well, I packed a grip and sneaked out the back way, and got to the station and caught the fast train to London. And what is going on back there at this moment I don't like to think. About now,'