ong the Bowery.

One afternoon McGowan drifted in in his silent, easy way, and sat,
comely, smooth-faced, hard, indomitable, good-natured, upon a stool.

"Ikey," said he, when his friend had fetched his mortar and sat
opposite, grinding gum benzoin to a powder, "get busy with your ear.
It's drugs for me if you've got the line I need."

Ikey scanned the countenance of Mr. McGowan for the usual evidences of
conflict, but found none.

"Take your coat off," he ordered. "I guess already that you have been
stuck in the ribs with a knife. I have many times told you those Dagoes
would do you up."

Mr. McGowan smiled. "Not them," he said. "Not any Dagoes. But you've
located the diagnosis all right enough--it's under my coat, near the
ribs. Say! Ikey--Rosy and me are goin' to run away and get married
to-night."

Ikey's left forefinger was doubled over the edge of the mortar, holding
it steady. He gave it a wild rap with the pestle, but felt it not.
Meanwhile Mr. McGowan's smile faded to a look of perplexed gloom.

"That is," he continued, "if she keeps in the notion until the time
comes. We've been layin' pipes for the getaway for two weeks. One day
she says she will; the same evenin' she says nixy. We've agreed on
to-night, and Rosy's stuck to the affirmative this time for two whole
days. But it's five hours yet till the time, and I'm afraid she'll
stand me up when it comes to the scratch."

"You said you wanted drugs," remarked Ikey.

Mr. McGowan looked ill at ease and harassed--a condition opposed to his
usual line of demeanour. He made a patent-medicine almanac into a roll
and fitted it with unprofitable carefulness about his finger.

"I wouldn't have this double handicap make a false start to-night for a
million," he said. "I've got a little flat up in Harlem all ready, with
chrysanthemums on the table and a kettle ready to boil. And I've engaged
a pulpit pounder to be ready at his house for us at 9.30. It's got to
come off. And if Rosy don't change her mind again!"--Mr. McGowan ceased,
a prey to his doubts.

"I don't see then yet," said Ikey, shortly, "what makes it that you talk
of drugs, or what I can be doing about it."

"Old man Riddle don't like me a little bit," went on the uneasy suitor,
bent upon marshalling his arguments. "For a week he hasn't let Rosy step
outside the door with me. If it wasn't for losin' a boarder they'd have
bounced me long ago. I'm makin' $20 a week and she'll never regret
flyin'