I told the Man of the World the story of a business failure in the East
End. The sufferers were two very tiny Italian boys, joint proprietors of
a fruit-stand. An unexpected season of warm weather had proved bad for
bananas, and the firm was insolvent.
I was right in thinking that the Man of the World would be interested in
hearing of this, and I described the situation to him in much detail.
The Man of the World and I had become great friends, and he had taken me
into his confidence. I knew all about the money that he made at cards. A
set of his brother’s friends had taught him to play poker, and were in
the habit of amusing themselves by letting him win. I knew too about the
horse that he had bought without his father’s knowledge. He kept it in a
stable near the park, and rode it every afternoon.
“I have to work a bluff game to get there,” he said one day, “but I get
there just the same.”
He told me about his young lady acquaintances. Evidently he had several
who admired him much. Two embroidered pillows and an elaborate
photograph case were proudly displayed by him as trophies of conquest.
One day, however, he had a bitter quarrel with his prettiest girl
friend. It was, I believe, about a bag of popcorn. After that he was
very satirical in regard to the entire sex, and had no communications
with any member of it except myself. “There are no women in it for me
any longer,” he said darkly.
When I asked him if he would like to hear the story of my latest “case,”
he responded that it would give him great pleasure.
Then he regarded me for a minute with a judicial air.
“What is it you do with people, anyway?” he asked. “I don’t understand.”
“Oh, a great many things—” I began.
“I wonder if you’re like my Sunday-school teacher. She’s awful good, she
is really. She goes down to the Traffic Street wharves and picks up
drunken men and converts ’em. Do you do that?”
“No,” I answered.
“Well, could you?”
“No,” I admitted, “I do not think that I could.”
But in spite of the confession of inferiority on my part, he paid close
attention to my tale.
“How old did you say those kids are?” he asked when I had finished.
“Seven and nine,” I replied.
“They’re game ones, aren’t they?” commented the Man of the World.
He went over to the window and stood there, thinking, for a few minutes.
“If they had any money, do you think they could start up the business
again?” he asked.
“Probably.”
The Man of the World thrust his hand into his pocket and drew out a roll
of bills, which he offered me, sheepishly.
“We had a game of poker last night,” he said, “and I scooped in—I mean,
I won. Take it, will you, for the little beggars? I don’t need it. I’m
flush, and can ante just as well as not.”