The stranger, in trying to take the exact amount from his pocket, dropped a dime on the floor and had much difficulty in picking it up by reason of his black gloves. This naturally made the clerk remember about the scar, which the man evidently desired to conceal. Carroll, the clerk, alert-minded and imaginative—as are all American Celts—caught a glimpse of the scar between the end of the glove and the beginning of the cuff.
On the next day, the unemployed males of New York read this in the Herald:
Wanted—A Brave Man. Wages One Hundred Dollars a Day. No Questions Answered. Apply Room 888, St. Iago Building.
There are many brave men in New York. When W. W. Lovell stepped from the elevator at the eighth floor he had almost to force his way through a crowd of men of all kinds—brutes and dreamers; sturdy animals, and boys with romance in their eyes; fierce-visaged, roughly dressed men, and fashionably attired chaps, with high-bred, impassive faces; young men seeking adventure and old men seeking bread. Lovell was darting keen glances at the men. He let his gaze linger on a man neither short nor tall, of about forty, who suggested determination rather than reckless courage. He was shabby with the shabbiness of a man who not only has worn the clothes a long time, but has slept in them. Lovell approached him and whispered:
“Come about Herald ad?”
“Yes.” Others drew near and listened.
“Are you really brave?” He looked anxiously into the man's face. The man, at the question and at the grins of his fellow-applicants, turned a brick-red.
“Try me!” he answered, defiantly.
“Before all these men?” There was a challenge in the hoarse whisper.
“If you want to,” answered the man, with quick anger. He clenched his fists and braced his body, as for a shock.