The two had, indeed, known hard times since the close of the summer and were now in no mood to let any stranger go unscathed. A sudden gleam of intelligence came into “Crooked Charlie’s” face, and at the same moment a bright light gilded the tips of the Rev. William Cassock’s iron-gray whiskers.
“Gimme another o’ them toddies and don’t forgit the nutmeg,” cried the stranger, and then the two smart people rose in their places and made a mysterious signal to the bartender.
As the sucker by the stove slowly sipped his second drink, the red-hot iron in front of him changed into the glowing base of the old wood-burner that has warmed two generations of loafers in the little manufacturing town of Bilkville Centre, Conn. He could hear the voice of old Hiram Goodsell inviting him to a game of “setback” in the back room of the tavern, and then some invisible force bore him up to the big hall over the schoolhouse, where the firemen’s ball was in progress, and he found himself balancing to corners with Mirandy Tucker, her that was a Larrabee.
“Cross over! Cross back! Balance all and swing your partners!” chanted old Bill Cady, and the sucker went swinging down the room and out into the cold field and across the snow to the railroad train which whirled him on to New York. He was filled with glad anticipations: he would go to see Lydia Thompson, he would plunge into the heart of the gay and beautiful Tenderloin, where the corks pop merrily all night long and the ivory chips rattle, and the music of the banjo and piano fills the air. Yes, here was New York at last, and here was the kindly old gentleman, known affectionately as Grand Central Pete, who has directed the urban revels of many a lonely stranger. The old man welcomes him and explains that the city pays him to look after unsuspecting visitors and keep them from being robbed before they get to Forty-first Street. Arm in arm, the two bend their steps toward what is believed in the provinces to be the merry quarter of the town, stopping only at a saloon to enable the sucker to change a counterfeit twenty-dollar bill for an obliging gentleman who hopes he will enjoy his stay in the city.
They are in the midst of gayety now, and as he sits there by the stove, unconscious of where he is, he is living over again the delights of many memorable nights in the great metropolis. He hears the glad strains of the piano, the merry shouts of feminine laughter, and sees the whirling skirts and flying feet of myriad fleet dancers. His throat is parched and he must have wine, and so must they all, at his expense. Kindly faces cluster around him, kind hands help to pull his money from his pocket, and, lest he should lose them, his watch from his fob, his rings from his fingers, his pin and studs from his shirt. These are indeed swift passing, merry hours——
“Have to wake up, sir; it’s one o’clock, and I’ve got to close up! Didn’t you have a watch-chain on when you came in here first?”
It is the bartender who has broken the spell, and the sucker’s glad dream is over.
“Well, suppose you take the watch, and I’ll take the pin and studs, and we’ll divide the sleeve buttons,” says Crooked Charlie to his companion as the two enter a saloon a few blocks away from the Café Throwout.
“That’s all right, that’s all right,” rejoins the Rev. William Cassock as he stuffs his share of the bills away in an inside pocket, “but in the meantime let us not forget that the same Providence that caused the manna to fall in the desert and sent the ravens down to feed Elisha brought this sucker to the Café Throwout and cast over him the mystic spell of deep, painless sleep. By the way, let me compliment you on a certain detail in your make-up which has attracted my attention. I notice that you wear one of those dude collars, without either cravat or pin. That is in keeping with your part. A jay would be content with such a collar, but one of us would get a cravat and pin first.”