tter was always a matter of sensational interest; it lay on the
clerk's table, waiting to be claimed, and every lodger inspected it as
he passed. Scores of men who never expected a letter would pick it up,
handle it in a wistful and affectionate manner, and regretfully lay it
down again. I have often wished I could analyze the thoughts of these
men as they handled tenderly these rare visitors conducted by Uncle
Sam into the bunk-house of Blind Alley.

It was a big letter with red seals and an aristocratic monogram that
first drew attention to a new-comer who had signed himself "Hans
Schwanen." "One-eyed Dutchy" had whispered to some of his friends that
the recipient of the letter was a real German Graf.

He was about sixty years of age, short, rotund, corpulent. His head
was bullet-shaped and set well down on his shoulders. His clothes were
baggy and threadbare, his linen soiled and shabby. He had blue eyes,
harsh red hair, and a florid complexion. When he arrived, he brought
three valises. Everybody wondered what he could have in them.

The bouncer was consumed with a desire to examine the contents, and,
as bouncer and general floor-manager of the house, expected that they
would naturally be placed under his care. When, however, it was
announced that the new-comer had engaged One-eyed Dutchy as his valet,
the bouncer swore and said "he might go to ----."

There was something peculiar and mysterious in a ten-cent guest of the
Bismarck hiring a valet. "Habenichts" kept aloof from the crowd. He
had no friends, and would permit no one to establish any intercourse
with him.

Dutchy informed an intimate friend that the Graf received a check from
Germany every three months. While it lasted, it was the valet's duty
to order, pay for, and keep a record of all food and refreshment. When
the bouncer told me of these things, I tried very hard to persuade the
Graf to dine at my house; but he declined without even the formality
of thanks. After a few months the revenue of the mysterious stranger
dried up. One-eyed Dutchy was discharged.

A snow-storm found the old Graf with an attack of rheumatism, and
helpless. Then he was forced to relinquish his ten-cent cot and move
upstairs to a seven-cent bunk. When he was able to get out again, he
came back, dragging up the rickety old stairs a scissors-grinder.
Several of the guests offered a hand, but he spurned them all, and
stuck to his job until he got it up.

Another snow-storm