or as a courtier of the time of Charles II.  Auchmuty Stein, of the Bowery, who supplies costumes and wigs at reasonable rates, was of the opinion that a neat sailor suit of light blue silk and decorated with white anchors was about the “brettiest thing in the shop, and sheap at fife dollars;” but Hefty said he never saw a sailor in silk yet, and he didn’t think they ever wore it.  He couldn’t see how they could keep the tar and salt-water from ruining it.

The Charles II. court suit was very handsome, and consisted of red cotton tights, blue velveteen doublet, and a blue cloak lined with pale pink silk.  A yellow wig went with this, and a jewelled sword which would not come out of the scabbard.  It could be had for seven dollars a night.  Hefty was still in doubt about it and was much perplexed.  Auchmuty Stein told him Charlie Macklin, the Third Avenue ticket-chopper, was after the same suit, and that he had better take it while he could get it.  But Hefty said he’d think about it.  The next day was his day for posing, and as he stood arrayed in the Marquis de Neuville’s suit of mail he chanced to see himself in one of the long mirrors, and was for the first time so struck with the ferocity of his appearance that he determined to see if old man Stein had not a suit of imitation armor, which would not be so heavy and would look as well.  But the more Hefty thought of it, the more he believed that only the real suit would do.  Its associations, its blood-stains, and the real silver tracings haunted him, and he half decided to ask Mr. Carstairs to lend it to him.

But then he remembered overhearing Carstairs tell a brother-artist that he had paid two thousand francs for it, and, though he did not know how much a franc might be, two thousand of anything was too much to wear around at a masquerade ball.  But the thing haunted him.  He was sure if Miss Casey saw him in that suit she would never look at Charlie Macklin again.

“They wouldn’t be in the same town with me,” said Hefty.  “And I’d get two of the prizes, sure.”

He was in great perplexity, when good luck or bad luck settled it for him.

“Burke,” said Mr. Carstairs, “Mrs. Carstairs and I are going out of town for New Year’s Day, and will be gone until Sunday.  Take a turn through the rooms each night, will you? as well as the studio, and see that everything is all right.”  That clinched the matter for Hefty.  He determined to go as far as the Palace Garden as the Marquis de Neuville, and say nothing whatever to Mr. Carstairs about it.

Stuff McGovern, who drove a night-hawk and who was a particular admirer of Hefty’s, even though as a cabman he was in a higher social scale than the driver of an ice-cart, agreed to carry Hefty and his half-ton of armor to the Garden, and call for him when the ball was over.

“Holee smoke!” gasped Mr. McGovern, as Hefty stumbled heavily across the pavement with an overcoat over his armor and his helmet under his arm.  “Do you expect to do much dancing in that sheet-iron?”