did you come from, anyway?"

"New York."

Chapman puckered his lips about his cigar. "That's bad. It's harder for
a non-commissioned New-Yorker to get into society than for a
district-attorney to get into heaven. Didn't you make any swagger
friends at college?"

"I never went to college."

"Too bad! A man should always strain a point to get to college. If he's
clever he can make friends there that he can 'work' for the rest of his
life."

Little by little, with adroit use of the detective faculty of the modern
reporter, he extracted from Webb the tale of his years--even the extent
of his fortune. The young aspirant's ingenuousness made him gasp more
than once; but he had too kindly a nature to state to Webb the
hopelessness of his case. His new friend was manly and generous, and had
won from him a sincere liking, tempered with pity. Better let him find
out for himself how things stood; then, when his eyes were open, steer
him out of his difficulties.

He rose in a few moments. "Well," he said, cheerily, "I wish I were
Lancaster. I might be able to do something for you: but I'm not in
it--not for a cent. You may as well take in the passing show, however.
The first Casino hop is on to-night. Put on your togs and go."

"Anybody there?" asked Andrew, loftily.

"Oh, rather. All the cottagers will be there, or a goodly number of
them. And it's a pretty sight."

"But how can I get in?"

"By paying the sum of one dollar, old man."

Andrew's cigar dropped from his mouth.

"Do you mean to say that _they_ go to a place and dance--in full
dress--on the floor--with everybody? Why, any one can pay a dollar."

Chapman laughed. "Oh!--well--go and see how it is for yourself. Meet me
in the gallery at ten, and I'll tell you who's who. _Au revoir_."

* * * * *

At half-past nine Andrew stood before his mirror and regarded himself
meditatively. Without vanity, he could admit that so far as appearance
counted he would be an ornament to any ballroom. His strong young figure
carried its evening clothes with the air of a gentleman, not of a
waiter. He had seen fashionable men in Delmonico's who needed their
facial tresses to avoid confusion. Chapman had that day pointed out to
him two scions of distinguished name whose "sideboards" had caused him
to mistake them for coachmen. He stroked his own mustache. It had never
been cut, and was as silken as the hair of the ladies he worshipped. His
head