Steele Kenyon placed his stick under his arm, and proceeded to draw on his gloves.
“Quite an interesting night,” he said, coolly. “I had no idea that there was so much gratis entertainment in New York. It is really hospitable. Here a lonely stranger arrives in town; and immediately he is taken in hand and provided with diversion of an absolutely unique character. The thing is an inspiration.”
He walked down the steps, and stood by the railing that ran along the front, gazing up at the building.
“At some future time,” he murmured, “I might have a desire to know just where to find this abode of marvels. The number is ninety-eight, and the street,” looking across the way at a corner light, “is Selden’s Square.”
He made a note of both. The arc lamps hissed and clicked in the silence; from away to the west came the throb of Broadway; the badly blended voices of some belated roisterers rose in quavering dissonance; the strip of sky that showed between the roof tops was black and starless.
“It was just about the top step, I fancy,” said Kenyon, “that the man from Butte was received so warmly.”
As he spoke a man appeared, apparently, from the shadows at his feet. With a sharp side-drive of the elbow Kenyon landed him heavily against the railing; then he stood calmly posed before him ready for the next move.
The man pulled himself together and chuckled.
“You’ve got the punch with you, all right, pal,” remarked he. “But don’t cut it loose on my account. I’m not dealing with you on those lines.”
“Then you should change your style of dawning on the scene,” observed Kenyon, dryly. “It’s the sort of thing that’s calculated to get you into several varieties of trouble; for from a short distance it has rather a rugged look. But now that you are here, what do you want?”