"'Dead right, pard,' he said--I only quote his words, gentlemen. 'My father came from Boston, left there in '58. Where're you from?'

"'Boston,' answered the man looking at him over the p.r.o.ngs of his fork.

"'That so? Well, why ain't you eatin' your turkey with your folks? Got any?'

"'Yes, got a lot of them, but I was short of a ticket.'

"Here the Large Man got up and went over to the Man from Boston.

"'Shake for Boston,' he said, holding out his big hand. 'And now bring that bottle over here and chip in with us.' Then he opened his pocketbook and took out a square slip of paper.

"'Here, tuck that in your clothes.' Again I must remark, gentlemen, that I am only quoting their language so that you can get a better idea of what sort of people I was with. 'That's a pa.s.s to your 'burg. I'm going South and I won't use it.'

"There were five of us at the table now, the Bostonian bringing over his plate without a word except 'Thank you,' and taking his share of the different dishes.

"The talk now became very interesting. The Large Man told stories of his early life on a farm and the Bostonian recited verses, and recited them very well, and the Woman laughed in the right place, and when the cigars were brought and the coffee and the cognac, I was sorry it was all over. That, when I look back upon it, is the most extraordinary thing of all. How a man of my experience could have--Well, I won't stop, I'll just keep on.

"With the coffee, and before the red-headed Irishman had brought the bill--oh, you should go round to Foscari's and look at that Irishman just to see how coa.r.s.e and vulgar a man can be who spends his whole life feeding animals who--no I WILL go on, for the most interesting part is to come. When the coffee was served, I say, the Large Man asked the waiter where he could send a telephone message to his hotel--wanted the porter to get his trunks down. The Irishman answered: 'Out in the hall, to the right o' where ye come in.' 'I'll go with you,' said the Woman; so the two got up and I opened the door for her, and we three sat down again--that is, the Small Man, the Bostonian and myself.

"We talked on, not noticing the time; then the Small Man looked at his watch, jumped up and called out to the waiter: 'Where did you say that telephone place was?'

"'In the hall--on the other side of that dure; ye kin see it from where ye're sittin'.'

"'Well, he's taking a devil of a time to do his telephoning' said the Small Man. 'Hold on to my coffee till I go and punch him up.'

"The Bostonian and I kept on talking. He was a draughtsman in an architect's office, so he told me, and was promised a place the following week, and I was very much interested in what he told me of his walking the streets looking for work.

"Mike, the waiter, now laid the bill on the table. I didn't want to know the amount; my hosts wouldn't want me to see it, of course, and so I didn't look at it. The Bostonian craned his head, but I forestalled his glance and turned a plate over it before he could read the total.

"Mike now approached.

"'Ye'd better pay now,' he said, 'before any more o' ye skip. It's nine dollars and sixty cints.'

"'They'll all be back in a minute,' I said. 'Wait till they come. I'm only an invited guest.'

"'I'll wait nothin'. The boss is out and I'm in charge. H'ist out yer money.'

"The Bostonian had risen from the table now and was looking at me as if I'd just been detected in picking his pocket.

"'But I'm an invited guest,' I protested.

"'Invited guest, are ye?' continued the Irishman. 'And ye ordered the grub yersilf! You heard him!' This to the Bostonian. 'Didn't he order the stuff? Let's see yer wad. No more o' ye's goin' to l'ave this room 'till I gits nine dollars and sixty cints. Here, Macaroni'--and he called the Italian--'ring up the station-house and till thim to sind somebody 'round. Ye can't play that game on me!"

"'My dear fellow,' I said--I had now to be as courteous as I could--'I don't want to play anything on you. You may be right in your views that these people have served me a scurvy trick, but I don't believe it.'

"'Well, thin, pull yer wad out, or I'll call the perlice.'

"'Don't do anything of the kind,' I urged. 'My name is Peter Griggs and I live quite near here. Lived there for twenty years. You can find out all about me from any of the neighbors; I haven't enough money with me, but I'll go to my room and get it.'

"'No ye don't; none o' that guff for me!' You can't think how coa.r.s.e he was. Then he walked deliberately over to the door and stood with his back against it.

"The Bostonian now joined in.

"'It looks as if you had been buncoed, my friend,' he said. 'It's an old dodge, this, of getting somebody to pay for your dinner, especially on holidays, and yet I can't see how anybody would pick you out as a greenhorn. I'd divide the bill with you, but really, as you know, I haven't the money.' I saw from his tone that he was thinking better of me.

"'No, I'll pay it myself. You, certainly, were not to blame. Will you go to my room with me, Mike?' I called him Mike because it seemed the best way to conciliate the man.

"'How far is it?' he asked, softening a little.

"'Two blocks.'

"'And ye'll pay if I go?'

"'Of course I will pay. Do I look like a man who would cheat you?'

"'All right, come on.'

"I bade the Bostonian good-by, and we started.

"Mike didn't speak a word on the way, nor did I. I felt like a suspected thief that a policeman was taking to the station-house; I've pa.s.sed them many times in the street, and I've often wondered what was pa.s.sing in the thief's mind. I knew now. I knew, too, what the Bostonian thought of me, and the Italian, and Mike.

"Then a shiver went through me, and the next moment I broke out into a cold sweat. I suddenly remembered that I hadn't any money in my room. I had given every cent, except two dollars of the amount I had brought uptown with me, to my washerwoman the night before. The bill was not due, but Mrs. Jones wanted it for Thanksgiving and so I let her have it. And yet, gentlemen--would you believe it!--I walked on, trying to think if there mightn't be some bills in the vest I'd worn the day before, or in the top drawer of my desk or in a china cup on the mantel. Really, it was an awful, awful position! I couldn't run! I couldn't explain. I just had to keep on.

"When I got here I turned up the light and asked him to sit down while I searched my clothes--you can see what disgrace does for a man--asked a common, low, vulgar waiter to sit down in my room. He didn't sit down--he just kept walking round and round, peering into the bookcases, handling the little things on the mantel, feeling the quality of the curtain that hangs there at the door--like a p.a.w.nbroker making up an inventory.

"Finally he said: 'Ye got a nice place here'--the first words that had come from his lips since we left the restaurant. 'The boss likes these jimcracks; he's got a lot o' thim up where he lives. I seen him pay twinty dollars to a Jew-dago for one o' THIM.' And he pointed to my row of miniatures.

"By this time I was face to face with the awful truth. There was nothing in the vest-pocket, nor in the cup, and there was nothing in the drawer. The only money I had was the two-dollar bill which had been left over after paying Mrs. Jones. I spread it out before him and looked him straight in the eye--fearlessly--that he might know I wasn't telling him an untruth.

"'My good man,' I said in my kindest voice, 'I was mistaken. I find I have no money. I have paid away every cent except these two dollars; take this bill and let me come in to-morrow and pay the balance.'

"'Good man be d.a.m.ned!' he said. 'I don't want yer two dollars. I'll take this and call it square.' Then he put my precious Cosway in his pocket and without another word walked out of the room."

"But wouldn't they give it back to you when you went for it?" I blurted out.

Peter leaned back in his chair and drummed on the arm with his fingers.

"To tell the truth, I have been ashamed to go. I suppose they will give it back when I ask them. And every day I intended going and paying them the money, and every day I shun the street as if a plague was there. I will go some time, but not now. Please don't ask me."

"Have you seen none of them since?" inquired another of his visitors.

"Only the Bostonian. He walked up to me while I was having my lunch in Na.s.sau Street yesterday.

"'I came out better than you did,' he said. 'The pa.s.s was good. I used it the next day. Just home from the Hub.'"

"Accomplice, maybe," remarked Peter's third visitor, "just fooling you with that architect yarn."

"Buncoed that pa.s.s out of somebody else," suggested the second visitor.