Thus did the wily Mr. Mitchell justify his headship.  In these profuse strains of unpremeditated art, apparently the merest of rambling commonplace, he had plainly conveyed to his henchmen that, though foiled by the countryman’s straightforward single-mindedness, they were not to adopt a policy of scuttle, but persevere in the paths of manifest destiny to benevolent assimilation; at the same time adroitly extricating his embarrassed lieutenant from a very present predicament.  Because “Archibald” felt a certain reluctance about accompanying Steve to Pier Number 4 in the capacity of owner, for the sufficiently obvious reason that he might be summarily kicked off.  Such a contretemps might give cause for conjecture even in one so green as his companion, reflected Archie.

He saluted with easy grace.  “Orders, captain?  Happy to oblige.  My friend’s friend is my friend.”

Steve saw the big steamships.  Thence, at his artless suggestion, they went to Brooklyn Bridge.  Followed rides on the Subway and Elevated, a viewing of skyscrapers and such innocent and exhilarating delights.  Noting Archibald’s well-groomed and natty appearance, Steve naively asked his advice in matters sartorial, purchasing much raiment and leaving an order with a fashionable tailor.  But, after an amazing dinner at an uptown house of call, Archibald took the reins into his own guidance, and led him forth to quite other distractions—­in the agricultural quarter of the city, where that popular and ever-blooming cereal, wild oats, is sown by night and by day.

Behind them the plausible Mr. Mitchell and his old friend’s son held high commune.

“Why, the lantern-jawed, bug-eyed, rubber-necked, double-jointed, knock-kneed, splay-foot, hair-lipped, putty-brained country Jake!  Did you see him sidestep that?” demanded the aggrieved Bickford, forgetting, in his pique, his stricken father.  “What you want to do to him is to sandbag him, give him knockout drops, stab him under the fifth rib!  He’s too elusive—­the devil-sent——­” He was proceeding to further particulars when Mitchell checked him.

“I want you to bear in mind that this is no strong-arm gang, and I’m neither dip nor climber.”  His emphasis was withering.  “My credit is involved in this affair now, and I’m going through with it.  If he’d had the dough with him he’d handed it out just like he did the check.  He floundered out through pure, unadulterated innocence.  I’ll land him yet.  Next time I won’t leave the shirt to his back.  I tried him with covetousness.  I’ve tried him with distress.  Now I’ll tempt him with a business opportunity—­one that he’ll have to have cash for.  Keep your eye on your uncle.  He’ll see you through.”

The next day being Sunday, Mitchell took the cowboy to the Speedway, and back through Central Park, in an auto, frankly hired.

“I can hardly afford to set up one,” he confided.  “And anyway, I haven’t much leisure.  Of course, when a good fellow like you comes along I can take a day off, once in a way.  But generally my nose is down to the grindstone.”