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man emerged from a museum exit with an enormous canvas, a copy, evidently, of one of the museum paintings. As the wind caught it and whirled it around I recognized it as a copy of Courbet's "Woman and Falcon," a nude woman of robust contour playing with a falcon. The wind from the north was pretty brisk and jerked at the canvas so violently that the chap who held it was hard pressed to keep it upright. I hurried to his rescue, and together we managed to get its edge to the wind. The man, who, as it developed, was the painter and owner of the picture, thanked me, and then, regarding my shabby attire, asked me if I would help him carry the picture down to Fifty-ninth Street. He would pay me twenty-five cents, he said. I readily assented, and we started out.

As we marched down the street, he tugging at one end, I at the other, the picture made a tremendous sensation. I suggested to the artist that we turn the painted side of the canvas away from the avenue and thus avoid the shouted comments of the boisterousminded, but he demurred.

"Let 'em see it," he said, grinning. "It'll do 'em good; it ain't every day they can see art naked and unashamed."

Well, the multitude had a fine show. The nearer we got to Fifty-ninth Street, the louder grew the hubbub. A parcel of boys tagged our heels, squawking in shrill hoodlum derision. Taxi-drivers, hotel flunkeys in uniform, messenger boys on bicycles, all peppered us with choice bits of impressionistic commentary.

"Hot dog!" "Some baby!" "A skin you'd love to touch!" "She can put her shoes in my trunk-if she's

got any!" "Why boys leave home!" "Sweet lips! Oh-h-h-h, Daddy!" "Shoot me while I'm happy!"

Then a motor-cycle cop came chugging up to the curb gesticulating to us to halt. We stopped. The cop almost broke his neck in his haste to extricate himself from the machine and get to us.

"Where do you think you are?” he bawled. "Coney Island? What are you doing with that scenery on the street, anyway?"

The artist explained that it was a museum copy which he was taking to a private gallery just below the Netherlands Hotel.

"Well," said the cop, "I'll say it ought to be in a private gallery— damned private. Why, she's naked as a jay-bird; no clothes on her a-tall!" He paused and examined the painting intently, and an expression of reluctant admiration crept into his eyes. "Pretty dizzy scenery," he finally commented; "for strong men only. Shake a leg now and get her out of here, and don't let the cop down on the corner see her, or he won't be able to blow his whistle. Slope along!" We sloped.


Without further adventure reached the gallery and delivered the picture. As I waited at the door, I heard the artist explaining to the dealer's secretary that I had demanded fifty cents porter's fee. The secretary, a solemn lady clad in deep mourning who spoke in a loud, instructive voice, insisted that my fee was exorbitant. For some time they wrangled, the artist waxing more and more eloquent in my behalf. At last, with a resigned air, she handed him something, and he rejoined me on the sidewalk. He had two quarters, one of which he gave me,

while the other he pocketed, remarking that he was broke and would n't be paid for his picture until the art-dealer had returned from a trip out of town. We walked north to Fifty-ninth Street; then the artist suggested that I accompany him to his studio, where he had a cast-off suit which might fit me. I gladly consented, for the trousers I wore were very badly soiled, while my coat still sported the graceless lapel which the Cleveland yard dick had mutilated some two weeks before.

As I strolled west on Fifty-ninth Street in the direction of Columbus Circle, feeling that now New York was my oyster, a tall chap with great hungry eyes rushed up to me and, seizing my hand, wrung it fervently.

"Well, I'll be damned if it ain't ole Charley!" he gloated. "You sure are a sight for sore eyes. How long you been in this burg, anyway? Say, but I'm glad to see ye!"

He contemplated me with such hearty delight and surprise that I was taken aback, thinking in my confusion that he was an old friend. As I looked at him steadfastly, however, I was positive I had never seen him before. I almost hated to tell him he had made a mistake. I noted that the clothes he wore were better than mine. He lowered his voice to a solemn pitch: "Charley, old scout, I been havin' mighty hard luck lately."

"But you 're mistaken," I assured him. "My name is n't Charley, and I never saw you before in my life."

His jaw dropped, and, knitting his brows, he stared at me hard.

"You don't mean to tell me you ain't ole Charley Twist from Philly?" "Nope, I'm not Charley Twist; never heard of him."

despair, and his eyes grew dull with disappointment, "you look enough like him to be his twin brother; but I see now that you ain't him. I'm sorry I bothered you. No harm done; but say-" and the fellow lowered his voice appealingly,-"mebbe you could slip me a little something, anyway. Excuse me for asking—”

I could n't keep my face straight. Finally I managed to reply:

"Say, old-timer, hate to discourage you, but I'm workin' the stem myself.”

He opened his eyes a little wider, but otherwise my remark did n't seem to feeze him much. He merely rattled some change in his pocket,-it sounded like a lot, too!—and, tipping me a solemn and understanding wink, walked away. Two blocks east, I saw him swoop down on some one else and give him an ecstatic glad hand. He had a good line and no mean histrionic ability, that bum.


After this episode I turned back, for no particular reason that I can remember, and wandered north on Madison Avenue. It was six o'clock or thereabouts, and I was beginning to feel hungry; so, after walking some distance farther, I struck off along a rather quiet side street lined with pretentious-looking apartment-houses. I did n't mean to squander on supper the twenty-five cents I had recently earned, not if I could help it. I had other plans for that twenty-five cents. But I did mean to cadge additional pence for food. Presently I halted beside an ornate stairway which decorated the entrance to an apartmenthouse and began to size up pedestrians as they approached along the street.

"Well," he said with a gesture of I had just picked out an old gentleman

with gray whiskers and was preparing to tackle him when I heard a very sharp and penetrating, "Pst! ps-s-ss-s-st!" behind me. I whirled, and perceived an old woman peering at me from a little doorway under the stairs I have just mentioned. This doorway apparently led into the basement of the house. As I balanced undecidedly on my heels, the old woman beckoned to me, emitting at the same time a sharp and impatient "Pst-s-s-s-s-s-st!" Then she drew out a great yellow earthenware pitcher from under her shawl, and, hobbling toward me, thrust it into my hands with a swift movement as though it were a hot dish just removed from the oven and suddenly grown too painful to hold. I was so astonished I almost dropped it.

"Get a pint,” she whispered with an ingratiating smack of her withered chaps, pointing to the pitcher. "Here's a dime fer the beer, and here's a dime fer yerself; and ye won't be a-foolin' me, will ye? Ye won't be breakin' the pitcher and runnin' away with an old woman's money, now will ye?"

"Ye see," she went on confidentially, "I can't go fer a pint meself. I live here with me son, and his wife she's turribly down on the liquor business. I sneak it in, though, when I get a chanct, and she ain't ketched me yet."

emerged from the saloon, my stomach well warmed with food. The pitcher I took immediately to the old woman. "There does n't seem to be any foam on the beer," I remarked.

"It's me that's a-lookin' after that," she said, straining her voice to an eager whisper. "I allus smears a bit o' butter in the can when I sends fer a pint. Butter's fine fer dryin' up the foam; and the saloon man can't be a-cheatin' ye with a half-pint o' suds. He must be after givin' ye full measure."

I resumed my journey northward on Fifth Avenue until at last, turning east on 110th Street, I stopped in a confectioner's and squandered every cent I had in the world on ice-cream sodas and candy. Sweets I had craved for days, and here was my chance. After making short work of the ice-cream, I walked over to Morningside Park and, sitting on a bench at one of the gates, ate the candy I had bought. Scarcely fifteen minutes elapsed before who should come strolling along but Frisco!

I was tickled pink to see him again, and he seemed equally pleased at hap

I assured her that I was incapable of pening upon me. It developed that he such a mean trick. had taken a strong dislike to the boat he had shipped on. The crew, he said, were all foreigners who could n't understand any English but cuss-words, and the mate was a surly German who treated the men like dogs. Then the slum which was served out at noon was so bad Frisco swore he could n't eat it; so he quit, and hurried back to Manhattan looking for me. Not finding me hanging around City Hall Park or the Battery, he concluded I had set out for Boston. Whereupon he had turned his nose in the direction of Harlem, where the New Haven freightyards were located.

I hurried off with the pitcher, and, after peering into the entrance of several saloons, I chose the one which seemed to have the most savory-looking free lunch. While the bartender was filling the pitcher, I helped myself liberally to the bread and sliced beef-hearts on the lunch-counter. I worked fast. Five minutes later I

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