of the coat, felt in his pantaloons to be sure that
he had his match-case and cigarettes, changed his shoes, got his hat
from a high nail by a little leap, and put it on a head as handsome as
Apollo's.

"Doctah Seveeah," he said, "in fact, I fine that a ve'y gen'lemany young
man, that Mistoo Itchlin, weely, Doctah."

The Doctor murmured to himself from the letter he was writing.

"Well, _au 'evoi'_, Doctah; I'm goin'."

Out in the corridor he turned and jerked his chin up and curled his lip,
brought a match and cigarette together in the lee of his hollowed hand,
took one first, fond draw, and went down the stairs as if they were on
fire.

At Canal street he fell in with two noble fellows of his own circle, and
the three went around by way of Exchange alley to get a glass of soda at
McCloskey's old down-town stand. His two friends were out of employment
at the moment,--making him, consequently, the interesting figure in the
trio as he inveighed against his master.

"Ah, phooh!" he said, indicating the end of his speech by dropping the
stump of his cigarette into the sand on the floor and softly spitting
upon it,--"_le_ Shylock _de la rue_ Carondelet!"--and then in English,
not to lose the admiration of the Irish waiter:--

"He don't want to haugment me! I din hass 'im, because the 'lection. But
you juz wait till dat firce of Jannawerry!"

The waiter swathed the zinc counter, and inquired why Narcisse did not
make his demands at the present moment.

"W'y I don't hass 'im now? Because w'en I hass 'im he know' he's got to
_do_ it! You thing I'm goin' to kill myseff workin'?"

Nobody said yes, and by and by he found himself alive in the house of
Madame Zenobie. The furniture was being sold at auction, and the house
was crowded with all sorts and colors of men and women. A huge sideboard
was up for sale as he entered, and the crier was crying:--

"Faw-ty-fi' dollah! faw-ty-fi' dollah, ladies an' gentymen! On'y
faw-ty-fi' dollah fo' thad magniffyzan sidebode! _Quarante-cinque
piastres, seulement, messieurs! Les_ knobs _vaut bien cette prix_!
Gentymen, de knobs is worse de money! Ladies, if you don' stop dat
talkin', I will not sell one thing mo'! _Et quarante cinque
piastres_--faw-ty-fi' dollah"--

"Fifty!" cried Narcisse, who had not owned that much at one time since
his father was a constable; realizing which fact, he slipped away
upstairs and found Madame Zenobie half crazed at the slaughter of her
assets.