“The ambitions that have kept me on the move over the four States of my past range wouldn’t lead me into any nice place in this burg of rules and regulations, I fear. Even out in God’s country they had to make allowance for a lot I did. Here, seems like there’s an Indian sign hung on me. Not a soul knows or cares who or what I am.”
Evidently interested, the police rider checked his mount’s manger-bound trot to a walk, for they were nearing their division of ways.
“Would you be satisfied, now, with folks knowing who and what you really are?” he asked impressively, throwing his weight on the right stirrup, as he leaned toward his charge. “Who and what do you want to be?”
“Who doesn’t matter so much. What I want to be is gay—to get as much out of playing as I do out of working when I’m home.”
’Donis Moore looked him over critically. “You want to be a gay bird and you ride around looking like the last shad in the Hudson!” Obviously pleased with his rôle of mentor, Donis’ dark, handsome face lighted with his argument. “You see, bo, the people are right busy in this burg. They can’t stop to chum with strangers. You got to get in step with them—insist on chumming with them as you swing along. First you got to look like what you want to be. Appertainin’ to which, I’d get me some civilized togs if I was you—that is, if you happen to have any spare change in them corduroys.”
“Change?” enquired Pape. “I let them keep the change. I could buy quite a chunk of this town—a whole cold shoulder of it—without straining my finances. I mean that and at present prices. What I haven’t got is friends—not one among all these millions upon millions of effete folks. I’m wondering if the run of the cards wouldn’t have been some different B. P.”
“B. P.? How come? I ain’t no Greek studjent any more than I’m a descendant of Anna Eva Fay.”
“Before Prohibition,” Why-Not accommodated. “But then, I wouldn’t want the sort of friends whose innards I had to win any more than I’d want those I could win with my outards. Clothes don’t make the man—or so the poets say.”
“That dope’s blank verse, young fellow. Leastwise, the opposite holds in N’Yawk. The wrong clothes unmake him.” The cop dandy straightened, with an illustrative, downward glance over his own brass-buttoned magnificence. “I’m giving it to you right, bo. Unless you’re a celeb, and have earned a sort of special license to dress contrary to form, you’d best flatter the people you wanta trot with by harnessing out as near like ’em as possible. You been wearing that broad-brim on Broadway? You have, eh? Don’t you see that they just naturally take you for a steerer—likely think you’re wanting to sell ’em stock in some gilt mine? Not meaning to hurt your feelings, I’ll say that the piebald you’re riding is the only O. K. thing about you. Happens to be a fawncy of our au fait cits. to ride broncs this spring. Seeing you’re so careless about your cash, you’d best throw some into the talons of a tailor and a hatter and a near-silk-shirt grafter. Then, after you’ve got yourself looking something like the gay guy you say you wanta be, begin to act like him. Do something, if you get me, to make ’em notice you.”
They parted at the “Remember the Maine” monument, the official mentor’s argument duly paid for in thanks, and a “good-luck” hope exchanged.