invited him to Dinner and he got his first Peek at a sure-enough Butler.

He had been a Genuine Aristocrat for about Eighteen Months, when he made
a Mis-step and landed with his Face in the Gravel. The Gigantic
Enterprise which he had been Promoting got into the Public Prints as a
Pipe Dream. There was no more Capital coming from the Angels. He was
back at the Post, with nothing to Show for his Bold Dash except a
Wardrobe and an Appetite for French Cooking. Society gave him the Frozen
Face, and all those who had been speaking of him as a Young Napoleon
agreed that he was a Dub. The Banks were trying to Collect on a lot of
Slow Notes that he had floated in his Palmy Days, and they had a Proud
Chance to Collect. He went into the Bankruptcy Court and Scheduled
$73,000 of Liabilities, the Assets being a Hat-Box and a Set of
Theatrical Posters.

When he had to go out and Rustle for a Job he was a Busy Hand-Shaker
once more. The Blow seemed to have landed right on the Bump of Memory,
and put his Recollecting Department into full Operation again. He could
spot an Old Pal clear across the Street. He was rushing up to Obscure
Characters that he had not seen in Eight Years, and he called each one
of them "Old Man." It was now their Turn to do the Forgetful Business.
The Tablets of his Memory read as clear as Type-Writing. Upon meeting
any Friend of his Boyhood he did the Shoulder-Slap, and rang in the Auld
Lang Syne Gag. He was so Democratic he was ready to Borrow from the
Humblest. The same Acquaintances who had tried to Stand In with him when
Things were coming his Way, were cutting off Street-Corners and getting
down behind their Newspapers to escape the Affectionate Massage,
beginning at the Hand and extending to the Shoulder-Blade. It was No
Use. He remembered them all, and no one got Past him.