public institution of
comparatively limited area. The children enjoy it, too. They come in
droves, and the swings and flying rings are in constant use.

It is like going to a foreign country. The shop signs, written in
Hebrew characters, suggest a combination of horseshoes and
carpet-tacks, and you may walk for blocks without hearing an English
word spoken. Ask your whereabouts of a street boy and he will quite
likely turn pale and edge away. He does not understand. You are an
alien, a foreign devil.

The Barowsky Brothers' bank building is the show-place of the district.
It is a staring white structure covered with gilt business signs and
adorned with abortive minarets that give it an air distinctly Oriental.
The entrance hall and the banking-rooms are sumptuous. They recall the
Arabian Nights and the word-painting of a circus poster. Mirrors,
gilding, mosaics--it is all a dream of luxury and impresses one with a
realizing sense of the financial standing of the Barowsky Brothers. You
must have a good front in the Yiddish country if you expect to handle
other people's money.

Esper Indiman, adjuster of averages, occupied a suite of rooms on the
fifth floor. I proceeded thither and found him in. We sat down and
smoked amicably.

"How is business?" I asked. "Have you adjusted many averages to-day?
And, by-the-way, I'm rather taken with the title of your new trade.
'Adjuster of averages'--there's an imposing note of omnipotence in the
words."

"It's a perfectly legitimate occupation. You'll find it listed in the
business directory."

"Of course, and never mind the details. I'm satisfied with its face
value, a brevet of vice-gerency. God knows there are plenty of averages
to be adjusted in this weary old world."

"Well, I may have some accounts to balance before I take down my sign,"
said Indiman, with a grim little smile. "I'm glad you came in to-day,
Thorp; I've been wanting to have a talk with you."

"Fire away," I answered, flippantly.

"Come into the back room," and he led the way.

The suite ran through the building. There was a good-sized room facing
on the square, fitted up with ordinary office furniture; back of that a
bath-room, and then the rear office, which had been turned into a
bachelor's living-room. There were bookcases, rugs, pictures, a big
mahogany writing-table, an open fireplace, easy-chairs--everything to
make life comfortable. "And the couch over there is my bed," concluded
Indiman. "I