Brainard felt more like himself when he was dressed and had tenderly absorbed the cocktail whose perfections had haunted his long walk. He swung into the dining-room as if he owned it, and chose a table facing the doors where he could view the grand entrance of the actors in this extravaganza. Three young women near him were chattering of spring flittings to Lenox and Westchester, and of summer pilgrimages to Newport and abroad. He heard familiar names of people he had once known. Soon a hand fell upon his shoulder and he looked up to see the chubby face of his classmate "Toodles" Brown, who fairly roared:
"By all the gods! It _is_ Ashley Brainard. You dear old fool! Have you been dead or in jail or did you just float in with the tide? Of course I'll sit down. I haven't seen you since we sailed my schooner for the Atlantic Cup three summers ago. Explain yourself."
Brainard held the hand that had gripped his and gazed with speechless joy into the beaming features of "Toodles" Brown. Then the surfman grinned as he said:
"Good old Toodles! Why, I have a cottage just down the beach beyond the Point. I'm too darned exclusive to mix up with this herd of get-rich-quick millionaires and gilded loafers like your fat self."
"Living down the beach in a cottage," gasped Mr. Brown. "I've been here two seasons and I swear I know every cottager on the island. I think you're a blessed old liar. Tell me all about yourself, Ashley. You've given us all the cold shake, you know."
"Well, you know I was down here shooting through Christmas vacation of Senior year, and I got the pineapple bee in my bonnet. There were millions in it, on paper. But Dad wanted me to cuddle down at a desk in town. I stood it for a year and you remember how I cussed. Then I said, 'The glad free life under the palms for mine,'--bucked clean over the traces, and bolted. I was beginning to dream of counting my coin, when one night in January the thermometer slid three degrees too low, and, bang, what a difference in the morning! It was a case of pineapple frappé. I was almost broke, but I couldn't throw up the sponge, and last fall there was an opening at Uncle Sam's life-saving station for a strong lad used to fussing around the water. And there I am drawing my little old forty a month and proud of it, until my new crop comes in. But, oh, Toodles, I _am_ glad to see you, and for Heaven's sake, tell me all the news about everybody! I never could write letters. And I'm a God-forsaken exile."