ably,
for hours, busy with the file blades of their penknives, with their
hat brims on a level with their eyelids. Wall Street speculators,
driving home in their carriages, love to point out these men to their
visiting friends and tell them of this rather famous lounging-place
of the "crooks." On Wall Street the speculators never use the file
blades of their knives.

Vuyning was delighted when one of this company stepped forth and
addressed him as he was passing. He was hungry for something out of
the ordinary, and to be accosted by this smooth-faced, keen-eyed,
low-voiced, athletic member of the under world, with his grim,
yet pleasant smile, had all the taste of an adventure to the
convention-weary Vuyning.

"Excuse me, friend," said he. "Could I have a few minutes' talk with
you--on the level?"

"Certainly," said Vuyning, with a smile. "But, suppose we step aside
to a quieter place. There is a divan--a cafe over here that will do.
Schrumm will give us a private corner."

Schrumm established them under a growing palm, with two seidls
between them. Vuyning made a pleasant reference to meteorological
conditions, thus forming a hinge upon which might be swung the door
leading from the thought repository of the other.

"In the first place," said his companion, with the air of one who
presents his credentials, "I want you to understand that I am a
crook. Out West I am known as Rowdy the Dude. Pickpocket, supper
man, second-story man, yeggman, boxman, all-round burglar, cardsharp
and slickest con man west of the Twenty-third Street ferry
landing--that's my history. That's to show I'm on the square--with
you. My name's Emerson."

"Confound old Kirk with his fish stories," said Vuyning to himself,
with silent glee as he went through his pockets for a card. "It's
pronounced 'Vining,'" he said, as he tossed it over to the other.
"And I'll be as frank with you. I'm just a kind of a loafer,
I guess, living on my daddy's money. At the club they call me
'Left-at-the-Post.' I never did a day's work in my life; and I
haven't the heart to run over a chicken when I'm motoring. It's a
pretty shabby record, altogether."

"There's one thing you can do," said Emerson, admiringly; "you can
carry duds. I've watched you several times pass on Broadway. You look
the best dressed man I've seen. And I'll bet you a gold mine I've got
$50 worth more gent's furnishings on my frame than you have. That's
what I wanted to see you about. I ca