"It only remains to add that I immediately started to realize upon these reasonable expectations. I went to the plaza at Fifty-ninth Street and Fifth Avenue and asked for bids. Unfortunately, no one seemed to take me seriously, and a policeman obliged me to move on. I had the same disheartening experience in front of Delmonico's and again in the Turkish room of the Waldorf-Astoria. It is August, you know, and the town is empty, but I was a bargain; I can say that without affectation. Merely to have bought me on speculation, with the idea of unloading on one of the Adirondack or White mountain hotel resorts—it would have been impossible to lose. But I could not get a bid, and so I shifted along down-town—Madison Square, Union Square, then westward by Jefferson Market and West Tenth Street. Ever edging a little closer to the river, you observe, and yet, upon my honor, I was not conscious of any definite volition in the matter; it was as though some one were gently pushing me along. Then Abingdon Square and your entrance upon the boards of my little drama—you and Mr. Bardi. Gentlemen, I thank you for your attention."
"I should say, Thorp," said Indiman, "that Mr. Harding is well qualified for membership in the Utinam Club. Will you put him up and I'll second him? The club," he added, by way of explanation to our guest, "is an association of the unsuccessful in life—the non-strenuous, the incapable—above all, the unlucky."
"Rest assured that my eligibility is beyond question," answered Mr. Harding, with a smile. "In a society where misfortune confers a certain cachet I may confidently expect to attain distinction."
"Do you really consider yourself an abnormally unlucky person?" said Indiman, seriously. "I have a reason for asking."
"Upon my soul," returned the young man, warmly. "I verily believe that I have a genius for getting on the wrong side of things. If I should wager you that I am alive at this moment there would be a bolt out of the blue before the money could be paid over."
A heavily built man of elderly appearance entered the dining-hall. He was accompanied by a friend who might be a banker or broker. The pair picked out a table on the opposite side of the room and immediately plunged into earnest conversation, their heads close together and speaking in guarded undertones.
"The gentleman with the gray hair," said young Mr. Harding, eagerly, "that is Senator Morrison, chairman of the committee on foreign relations. He must be just in from Washington. Congress, you know, is in extra session."
"Ah, yes; an able man," said Indiman, politely.
"He would know—he would know," muttered Harding, disjointedly. His burning gaze fixed itself upon the two men at the distant table, as though by sheer will-power he would surprise the secret of their whispering lips. "He must—he does know."
"What?" asked Indiman.