“All Hungarians worship America,” he said, “and when I saw that you were an American I knew that my good fortune had begun in earnest.  Of course I believed America to be the land of plenty, and there could have been no stronger proof of this than the generosity with which you, the first American I had ever seen, gave me, a perfect stranger, such a valuable prize.  When I remembered the number of the ticket and the letter in the alphabet, Y, to which this number corresponds, I was dazed at the significance of the omen, and resolved at once to seek my fortune in the United States.  I sold the order on the tailor for money enough to buy a suit of ready-made clothes and pay my fare to Genoa.  From this port I worked my passage to Gibraltar, and thence, after performing a few weeks in a small English circus, I went to New York in a fruit-vessel.  As long as I was in America everything prospered with me.  I made a great deal of money, and spent a great deal.  After a couple of years I went to London with a company, and there lost my pay and my position by the failure of the manager.  In England my good luck all left me.  Circus people are too plenty there; everybody is an artist.  I could scarcely get anything to do in my line, so I drifted over to Paris.”

We prolonged our stroll for an hour, for although I did not anticipate any pleasure or profit from continuing the acquaintance, there was yet a certain attraction in his simplicity of manner and in his naive faith in the value of my influence on his fortunes.  Before we parted he expressed again his ability to get me something to do, but I did not credit his statement enough to correct the impression that I was in need of employment.  At his earnest solicitation I gave him my address, concealing, as well as I could, my reluctance to encourage an acquaintance which could not result in anything but annoyance.

One day passed, and two, and on the third morning the porter showed him to my room.

“I have found you work!” he cried, in the first breath.

Sure enough, he had been to a Polish acquaintance who knew a countryman, a copyist in the Louvre.  This copyist had a superabundance of orders, and was glad to get some one to help him finish them in haste.  My gymnast was so much elated over his success at finding occupation for me that I hadn’t the heart to tell him that I was at leisure only while hunting a studio.  I therefore promised to go with him to the Louvre some day, but I always found an excuse for not going.

For two or three weeks we met at intervals.  At various times, thinking he was in want, I pressed him to accept the loan of a few francs, but he always stoutly refused.  We went together to his lodging-house, where the landlady, an English-woman, who boarded most of the circus people, spoke of her “poor dear Mr. Nodge,” as she called him, in quite a maternal way, and assured me that he had wanted for nothing, and should not so long as his wound disabled