The men are long-haired softies. They all talk
kinda foolish." Kitty despaired of making the situation clear to him
and resorted to the personal. "Can't you come down to-night to The
Purple Pup or The Sea Siren and see for yourself?" she proposed, and
gave him directions for finding the classic resorts.

"I reckon they must be medicine fakirs," decided Clay. "I've met up
with these long-haired guys before. Sure I'll come."

"To-night?"

"You betcha, little pardner, I'll be there."

"I'm dressed silly--in bare feet and sandals and what they call a
smock. You won't mind that, will you?"

"You'll look good to me, no matter what you wear, little Miss
Colorado," he told her with his warm, big brother's smile.

"You're good," the girl said simply. "I knew that on the train even
when I--when I was mean to you." There came into her voice a small
tremor of apprehension. "I'm afraid of this town. It's so--so kinda
cruel. I've got no friends here."

He offered instant reassurance with a strong grip of his brown hand.
"You've got one, little pardner. I'll promise that one big husky will
be on the job when you need him. Don't you worry."

She gave him her shy eyes gratefully. There was a mist of tears in
them.

"You're good," she said again naively.

CHAPTER VII

ARIZONA FOLLOWS ITS LAWLESS IMPULSE

When Clay two hours later took the Sixth Avenue L for a plunge into
Bohemianism he knew no more about Greenwich Village than a
six-months-old pup does about Virgil. But it was characteristic of him
that on his way downtown he proceeded to find out from his chance
seat-mate something about this unknown terrain he was about to visit.

The man he sat beside was a patrolman off duty, and to this engaging
Westerner he was quite ready to impart any information he might have.

"Fakirs," he pronounced promptly. "They're a bunch of long-haired
nuts, most of 'em--queer guys who can't sell their junk and kid
themselves into thinking they're artists and writers. They pull a lot
of stuff about socialism and anarchy and high art."

"Just harmless cranks--gone loco, mebbe?"

"Some of 'em. Others are there for the mazuma. Uptown the Village is
supposed to be one hell of a place. The people who own the dumps down
there have worked up that rep to draw the night trade. They make a
living outa the wickedness of Greenwich. Nothin' to it--all fake
stuff. They advertise September Morn balls with posters somethi