He extended to me an invitation to come in with him “and have a drink,” a courtesy which, needless to say, I declined.  He then left me, after another vehement handshaking, and proceeded up the drive in front of the house.  A feeling of curiosity to see what kind of greeting the drunken, wastrel “houtcast” would command from his folk, all unconscious of his disagreeable proximity to their eminently respectable residence, induced me to follow him.  I paused at a point where, concealed by some shrubbery, I had a view of the hall door, which, upon my friend’s ringing, was opened by a smart maid-servant.  Swaying up and down on the steps in a most ludicrous manner, the “houtcast” addressed her, although I was too far off to make out the words, but to judge by her looks she felt no prepossession in his favour.  After a while she went away, leaving the door open and him standing on the steps.  In about a minute a stout, middle-aged gentleman appeared from the brightly-lighted hall, his whole aspect presenting the strongest possible contrast to that of the seedy mariner.  The conference between them was brief and angry, and terminated with the gentleman’s returning within and slamming the door in the other’s face, who, with his hands in his pockets, stood for some time planted where he was, staring at the visage de bois as if dumfounded.  Then he applied himself vigorously to the bell, and pulled with might and main.  This course of treatment having no effect, he commenced shouting a series of objurgations much too vigorous to be here set down.  No response, of course, was forthcoming, and at length the discomfited visitor turned slowly away from the inhospitable mansion.  I rejoined him as he staggered past me.  He showed no surprise at seeing me again, but contented himself with simply asking me where the ——­ I had been.  From what he said in answer to my questions, it appeared that they had had the brutality to tell him to call when he was sober,—­“as if,” said he, with a good many curses, “I wasn’t sober enough for them.  Wouldn’t even give me a night’s shelter.  But it’s always how they’ve treated me—­a houtcast, that’s what I am—­a houtcast.”

Apparently hard hit, the “houtcast,” who for the time being certainly had some grounds for so styling himself, leaned with his back against the gate, as if the effort to stand upright was too much for him on the top of his recent disappointment.  His plight was undoubtedly pitiable.  He had no money, it was well after midnight, the city was distant, and moreover the search for a lodging would in his condition be a matter of time and difficulty.  Taking pity on his forlorn state, I offered him the shelter of my own roof for the night, an offer he was not slow to accept, remarking that one gentleman should help another; and that if I had any “tidy brandy” he would be able to get on well enough until to-morrow.  So we set out for my lodgings in Cecil Street.