sudden notion
to have lunch at my favorite chophouse joint on Broadway, and it was the
quick turn I made that causes the collision.

I must have hit him kind of solid too; for his steel-rimmed glasses are
jarred off, and before I can pick 'em up they've been stepped on.

"Sorry, old scout," says I. "Didn't know you'd dodged in behind. And
it's my buy on the eyeglasses."

"Sho!" says he. "No great harm done, young man. But them specs did cost
me a quarter in Portland, and if you feel like you----"

"Sure thing!" says I. "Here's a half--get a good pair this time."

"No, Son," says he, "a quarter's all they cost, and Jim Isham never
takes more'n his due. Just wait till I git out the change."

So I stands there lookin' him over while he unwraps about four yards of
fishline from around the neck of a leather money pouch. Odd old Rube he
was, straight and lean, and smoked up like a dried herring.

"There you be," says he, countin' out two tens and a five.

Course, I'd felt better if he'd kept the half. The kale pouch wa'n't so
heavy, and from the seedy blue suit and the faded old cap I judged he
could use that extra quarter. But somehow I couldn't insist.

"All right, Cap," says I. "Next time I turn sudden I'll stick my hand
out." I was movin' off when I notices him still standin' sort of
hesitatin'. "Well?" I adds. "Can I help?"

"You don't happen to know," says he, "of a good eatin' house where it
don't cost too all-fired much to git a square meal, do you?"

"Why," says I, "I expect over on Eighth-ave., you could----" And then I
gets this rash notion of squarin' the account by blowin' him to a real
feed. Course, I might be sorry; but he looks so sort of lonesome and
helpless that I decides on takin' a chance. "Say, you come with me,"
says I, "and lemme stack you up against the real thing in Canadian
mutton chops."

"If it don't cost over twenty-five cents," says he.

"It won't," says I, smotherin' a grin. He wa'n't a grafter, anyway, and
the only way I could ease his mind on the expense question was to let
him hand me a quarter before we went in, and make him think that covered
his share. Max, the head waiter, winks humorous as he sees who I'm
towin' in; but he gives us a table by a Broadway window and surprises
the old boy by pullin' out his chair respectful.

"Much obliged, Mister," says Jim Isham. "Much obliged."

With that he hangs his old cap careful on the candle shade. It's one of
these oldtime blizza