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dark, my evenings were free and I became restless. I looked into the taverns on Thames Street and on the Long Wharf, but I had no wish to join those dim-lit and boisterous gatherings. Card-playing was permitted in the social rooms at the “Y” on condition that no money changed hands and I lose interest in card games without the incentive of gain. Finally I came upon Herman’s Billiard Parlor—two long rooms containing seven tables under powerful hanging lights and a bar dispensing licit beverages, for these were “Prohibition” days. Any strong liquor you brought in your own pocket was winked at, but most of the players and myself were contented with orders of Bevo. It was a congenial place. The walls were lined with benches on two levels for onlookers and for players awaiting their turn. The game principally played at that time was pool. Pool is a concentrated rather than a convivial sport, conducted in grunts, muted oaths, and prayers, intermittently punctuated by cries of triumph or despair. The habitués at Herman’s were handymen on the estates, chauffeurs, a few store clerks, but mostly servants of one kind or another. I was occasionally invited to take a cue. I established my identity as one who taught tennis to the beginners at the Casino. I play fairly well (long hours—in Alpha Delta Phi), but I became aware of an increasing coolness toward me. I was about to go seek another poolroom when I was rescued from ostracism by being adopted by Henry Simmons.
    What a lot I came to owe to Henry : his friendship, the introductions to his fiancée, to Edweena, the incomparable Edweena, and to Mrs. Cranston and her boardinghouse; and to all that followed from that. Henry was a lean English valet of forty. His face—long, red, and pockmarked—was brightened by dark observant eyes. His speech had been chastened by seven years in this country, but often reverted in high spirits to that of his earlier years—a speech which delighted me with its evocation of those characters of a similar background in the pages of Dickens and Thackeray. He served a well-known yachtsman and racing enthusiast whom he much admired and whom I shall call Timothy Forrester. Mr. Forrester, like others of his class and generation, lent his boat to scientific expeditions and explorations (and participated in them) where the presence of a “gentleman’s gentleman” would have seemed frivolous. So Henry was left behind in Newport for months at a time. This arrangement agreed well with him because the woman he planned to marry spent the greater part of the year there. Henry was always dressed in beautifully cut black suits; only his brightly colored vests expressed his individual taste. He was a favorite at Herman’s, to which his low-voiced banter brought an element of extravagant and exotic fancy.
    He must have been observing me for some time and connecting me with my advertisement in the newspaper, because one evening when I had been sitting overlong on the sidelines he suddenly approached me and said, “You there, professor! How about three sets at two bits each, eh? . . . What’s your name, cully? . . . Ted North? Mine’s Henry Simmons.”
    At this time of our first encounter Henry was a very unhappy man. His master was helping a team to photograph the birds of Tierra del Fuego and Henry hated idleness; his fiancée was away on another voyage and he missed her painfully. We played in relative silence. I had a run of luck or perhaps Henry disguised his greater proficiency. When the game came to an end the rooms were emptying. He invited me to a drink. The house reserved some cases of Bass’s Ale for his use; I ordered the usual near-beer.
    â€œNow who are you, Ted, and are you happy and well? I’ll tell you who I am. I’m from London—I never went to school after I was twelve. I was a bootblack and swept the barber’s shop. I raised my eyes a