e,
remarkably unconcerned.

"Keb, sir! Have a keb, sir?"

The Nighthawker was on the scene, like a longshore wrecker, and waving
an inviting arm toward his shabby vehicle.

The man coolly restored to shape his misused opera hat, adjusted his
necktie, whispered some orders to his coachman and then asked of the
Nighthawker: "Where's your carriage, my man?"

Eagerly the green-coated cabby led the way until the rescued couple
stood before it. The woman inspected the battered vehicle doubtfully
before stepping inside. The man eyed the sorry nag for a moment and then
said, with a laugh: "Good frame you have there; got the parts all
numbered?"

But the Nighthawker was not sensitive. The intimation that his horse
might fall apart he answered only with a good-natured chuckle and asked:
"Where shall it be; home, sir?"

"Why, yes, drive us to number----"

"Oh, we know the house well enough, sir, Bonfire and me."

"Bonfire! Bonfire, did you say?" Incredulously the fare looked first at
the horse and then at the driver. "Why, 'pon my word, it's old Dan! And
this relic in the shafts is Bonfire, is it?"

"It's him, sir; leastways, all there's left of him."

"Well, I'll be hanged! Kitty! Kitty!" he shouted into the cab where my
lady was nervously pulling her skirts closer about her and sniffing the
tobacco-laden atmosphere with evident disapproval. "Here's Dan, our old
coachman."

"Really?" was the unenthusiastic reply from the cab.

"Yes, and he's driving Bonfire. You remember Bonfire, the hackney I
bought for you at the Garden the year we were married."

"Indeed? Why, how odd? But do come in, Jerry, and let's get on home. I'm
so-o-o-o tired."

Mr. Jerry stifled his sentiment and shut the cab-door with a bang. Dan
pulled Bonfire's head into position and lightly laid the whip over the
all too obvious ribs. Bonfire, his head bobbing ludicrously on his thin
neck and his stubby tail keeping time at the other end of him, moved
uncertainly up the avenue at a jerky hobble.

And there let us leave him. Poor old Bonfire! Bred to win a ribbon at
the Garden--ended as the drudge of a Tenderloin Nighthawker.

PASHA

THE SON OF SELIM

Long, far too long, has the story of Pasha, son of Selim, remained
untold.

The great Selim, you know, was brought from far across the seas, where
he had been sold for a heavy purse by a venerable sheik, who tore his
beard during the bargain and swore by Allah that without Selim there