t the same as
ever."

And all the time I was wondering who he was. I didn't know him from
Adam; I couldn't recall him a bit. I don't mean that my memory is weak.
On the contrary, it is singularly tenacious. True, I find it very hard
to remember people's _names_; very often, too, it is hard for me to
recall a _face_, and frequently I fail to recall a person's appearance,
and of course clothes are a thing one doesn't notice. But apart from
these details I never forget anybody, and I am proud of it. But when it
does happen that a name or face escapes me I never lose my presence of
mind. I know just how to deal with the situation. It only needs coolness
and intellect, and it all comes right.

My friend sat down.

"It's a long time since we met," he said.

"A long time," I repeated with something of a note of sadness. I wanted
him to feel that I, too, had suffered from it.

"But it has gone very quickly."

"Like a flash," I assented cheerfully.

"Strange," he said, "how life goes on and we lose track of people, and
things alter. I often think about it. I sometimes wonder," he continued,
"where all the old gang are gone to."

"So do I," I said. In fact I was wondering about it at the very moment.
I always find in circumstances like these that a man begins sooner or
later to talk of the "old gang" or "the boys" or "the crowd." That's
where the opportunity comes in to gather who he is.

"Do you ever go back to the old place?" he asked.

"Never," I said, firmly and flatly. This had to be absolute. I felt that
once and for all the "old place" must be ruled out of the discussion
till I could discover where it was.

"No," he went on, "I suppose you'd hardly care to."

"Not now," I said very gently.

"I understand. I beg your pardon," he said, and there was silence for a
few moments.

So far I had scored the first point. There was evidently an old place
somewhere to which I would hardly care to go. That was something to
build on.

Presently he began again.

"Yes," he said, "I sometimes meet some of the old boys and they begin to
talk of you and wonder what you're doing."

"Poor things," I thought, but I didn't say it.

I knew it was time now to make a bold stroke; so I used the method that
I always employ. I struck in with great animation.

"Say!" I said, "where's Billy? Do you ever hear anything of Billy now?"

This is really a very safe line. Every old gang has a Billy in it.

"Yes," said my friend, "su