"Who was he?" cried many.
A thick-set, tough-looking character spoke up: "Oh, he's de gazabo wot did the turn on de——" At this instant a policeman pushed toward us, and, shoving a club into the fellow's ribs, shouted: "Come, now, get out o' this, or I'll——"
The fellow was off, and with him our chance of identifying the stranger vanished. The police had been too busy with other matters to secure his name. Another good act to be credited to an unknown!
The fire was soon under control and I renewed my walk, emerging on Broadway as the shadows of night were coming on, and the street was awakening to its characteristic summer life.
Suddenly I saw him—the identical man—walking across the thoroughfare. I quickened my pace, although going rapidly at the time. It was my intention to get closer to him and notice him better, as I was interested. He turned up-town, and I saw that, although he was walking easily, his pace was quicker than mine. What impressed me more than anything else was his graceful carriage and the fine cut of his clothes. He was dressed in a dark suit without waistcoat, and one of those soft, white summer shirts which have become popular of late years. On his head was a plain but expensive Panama. As he passed up the street ahead of me, gaining all the while with his easy stride, he saluted a few gentlemen, and the policemen seemed to know him. He evidently was a striking figure to other eyes than mine, for I noticed several men stop and half turn to look after him—a thing that one sees on Broadway but seldom. He turned into a side street, and again I lost him. I fancied he disappeared into one of the bachelor apartment houses of that section.
During the rest of the evening I regretted not having made stronger efforts to learn his name; then I laughed at myself for being so impressed by a stranger's appearance. The fact was, that the man's action and personality had affected me so strongly that for days I frequently found myself thinking of the fire and the rescue. I often looked along the street when walking, in a vague hope of seeing the handsome, clear-cut face of the man who had acted so promptly, but so unostentatiously.
Little did I then know how great a factor that man was to be in the moulding of my future—how circumstances were shaping, to link his active nature with my career, and to lead me into one of the most peculiar experiences that ever came to any one.
Over a month passed, and the first signs of fall were upon us. The streets were assuming the appearance of activity, and familiar faces reappeared in the public places, all invigorated and refreshed by the summer's outings.
Early in October I found myself with my friend, Dr. Moore, a well-known physician, standing in one of the popular theatres. We had dropped in for one act or so, and, like many others, were unable to secure seats owing to the hour and the popularity of the play. At first, engrossed with the performance, we paid no attention to the audience; but when the act closed and the lights were turned up, we glanced around as we prepared to leave for a stroll. My attention was called to some ladies in one of the lower boxes—two fair-haired and strikingly attractive young women, and an older one, evidently a relative, for there was a resemblance in features that was noticeable. The younger ones were certainly sisters; their similarity of complexion, face and figure rendered such an assumption a certainty.
My friend noticed them, and a change came over his face; he began to beam as one does who has seen a friend. We were far off, and in a position where we could admire, without impoliteness.