"Oh, any way you choose," says I. "Sure I'll stay."

"Thanks," says he. "You needn't wait longer than seven, and if it comes in you can get me on the 'phone and---- No, it will be in code; so you'd best bring it over."

And it wa'n't so much of a wait, after all, not more'n an hour; for at six-fifteen I've been over to the club, had Mr. Robert called from the billiard room, got him to fix up his answer, and am pikin' out the front door with it when he holds me up to add just one more word.

Maybe we was some conspicuous from Fifth-ave., him bein' still in his shirt sleeves and the steps bein' more or less brilliant.

Anyway, I'd made another start and was just gettin' well under way, when alongside scuffs this hollow-eyed object with the mangy whiskers and the mixed-ale breath.

"Excuse me, young feller," says he, "but----"

"Ah, flutter by, idle one!" says I. "I'm no soup ticket."

[Ill.u.s.tration: "Ah, flutter by, idle one!" says I.]

"But just a word, my friend," he insists.

"Save your breath," says I, "and have it redistilled. It's worth it."

"Thanks," he puffs out as he shuffles along at my elbow; "but--but wasn't that Bob Ellins you were just talking to?"

"Eh?" says I, glancin' at him some astonished; for a seedier specimen you couldn't find up and down the avenue. "What do you know about him, if it was?"

"More than his name," says the wreck. "He--he's an old friend of mine."

"Oh, of course," says I. "Anyone could tell that at a glimpse. I expect you used to belong to the same club too?"

"Is old Barney still on the door?" says he.

And, say, he had the right dope on that. Not three minutes before I'd heard Mr. Robert call the old gink by name. But that hardly proved the case.

"Clever work," says I. "What was it you used to do there, take out the ashes."

"I don't wonder you think so," says he; "but it's a fact that Bob and I are old friends."

"Why don't you tackle him, then," says I, "instead of botherin' a busy man like me? Go back and call him out."

"I haven't the face," says he. "Look at me!"

"I have," says I, "and, if you ask me, you look like something the cat brought in."

He winces a little at that. "Don't tell Bob how bad it was, then,"

says he. "Just say you let me have a fiver for him."

"Five bucks!" says I. "Say, I'm Mr. Robert's office boy, not his bank account."

"Two, then?" he goes on.

"My, but I must have the b.o.o.b mark on me plain!" says I.

"Couldn't you spare a half," he urges, "just a half, to get me a little something to eat, and a drink, and pay for a bed?"

"Oh, sure!" says I. "I carry a pocketful of halves to shove out to all the b.u.ms that presents their business cards."

"But Bob would give it back to you," he pleads. "I swear he would!

Just tell him you gave it to--to----"

"Well?" says I. "Algernon who?"

"Tell him it was for Melville Slater," says he. "He'll know."

"Melly Slater, eh?" says I. "Sounds all aright. But I'd have to chew it over first, even for a half. I have chances of gettin' stung like this about four times a day, Melly. And, anyway, I got to file a message first, over at the next corner."

"I'll wait outside," says he.

"That's nice of you," says I. "It ain't any cinch you'll connect, though."

But as I dashes into a hotel where there's a blue sign out he leans up against a window gratin', sort of limp and exhausted, and it looks like he means to take a sportin' chance.

How you goin' to tell, anyway? Most of 'em say they've been thrown out of work by the trusts, but that they've heard of a job in Newark, or Bridgeport, or somewhere, which they could get if they could only rustle enough coin to pay the fare. And they'll add interestin'

details about havin' a sick wife, or maybe four hungry kids, and so on.

But this rusty bunch of works has a new variation. He's an old friend of the boss. Maybe it was partly so too. If it was--well, I got to thinkin' that over while the operator was countin' the words, and so the next thing I does is to walk over to the telephone queen and have her call up Mr. Robert.

"Well?" says he, impatient.

"It's Torchy again," says I. "I've filed the message, all right. But, say, there's a piece of human junk that I collected from in front of the club who's tryin' to panhandle me for a half on the strength of bein' an old chum of yours. He says his name's Melville Slater."

"Wha-a-at!" gasps Mr. Robert. "Melly Slater, trying to borrow half a dollar from you?"

"There's no doubt about his needin' it," says I. "My guess is that a half would be a life saver to him just now."

"Why, it doesn't seem possible!!" says Mr. Robert. "Of course, I haven't seen Melly recently; but I can't imagine how---- Did you say he was still there?"

"Hung up on the rail outside, if the cop ain't shooed him off," says I.

"Then keep him there until I come," says Mr. Robert. "If it's Melly, I must come. I'll be right over. But don't say a word to him until I get there."

"Got you," says I. "Hold Melly and keep mum."

I could pipe him off through the swing door vestibule; and, honest, from the lifeless way he's propped up there, one arm hangin' loose, his head to one side, and that white, pasty look to his nose and forehead--well, I didn't know but he'd croaked on the spot. So I slips through the cafe exit and chases along the side street until I meets Mr. Robert, who's pikin' over full tilt.

"You're sure it's Melly Slater, are you?" says he.

"I'm only sure that's what he said," says I. "But you can settle that soon enough. There he is, over there by the window."

"Why!" says Mr. Robert. "That can never be Melly; that is, unless he's changed wonderfully." With that he marches up and taps the object on the shoulder. "I say," says he, "you're not really Melly Slater, are you?"

There's a quick shiver runs through the man against the rail, and he lifts his eyes up cringin', like he expected to be hit with a club.