“Oh, no,” said Rivington; “not at this time of night.  To tell the truth, I haven’t been along the Bowery in a long time, but I know it as well as I do Broadway.  We’ll look up some of the typical Bowery boys and get them to talk.  It’ll be worth your while.  They talk a peculiar dialect that you won’t hear anywhere else on earth.”

Rivington and I went east in a Forty-second street car and then south on the Third avenue line.

At Houston street we got off and walked.

“We are now on the famous Bowery,” said Rivington; “the Bowery celebrated in song and story.”

We passed block after block of “gents’” furnishing stores—­the windows full of shirts with prices attached and cuffs inside.  In other windows were neckties and no shirts.  People walked up and down the sidewalks.

“In some ways,” said I, “this reminds me of Kokomono, Ind., during the peach-crating season.”

Rivington was nettled.

“Step into one of these saloons or vaudeville shows,” said he, “with a large roll of money, and see how quickly the Bowery will sustain its reputation.”

“You make impossible conditions,” said I, coldly.

By and by Rivington stopped and said we were in the heart of the Bowery.  There was a policeman on the corner whom Rivington knew.

“Hallo, Donahue!” said my guide.  “How goes it?  My friend and I are down this way looking up a bit of local colour.  He’s anxious to meet one of the Bowery types.  Can’t you put us on to something genuine in that line—­something that’s got the colour, you know?”

Policeman Donahue turned himself about ponderously, his florid face full of good-nature.  He pointed with his club down the street.

“Sure!” he said huskily.  “Here comes a lad now that was born on the Bowery and knows every inch of it.  If he’s ever been above Bleecker street he’s kept it to himself.”

A man about twenty-eight or twenty-nine, with a smooth face, was sauntering toward us with his hands in his coat pockets.  Policeman Donahue stopped him with a courteous wave of his club.

“Evening, Kerry,” he said.  “Here’s a couple of gents, friends of mine, that want to hear you spiel something about the Bowery.  Can you reel ’em off a few yards?”

“Certainly, Donahue,” said the young man, pleasantly.  “Good evening, gentlemen,” he said to us, with a pleasant smile.  Donahue walked off on his beat.

“This is the goods,” whispered Rivington, nudging me with his elbow.  “Look at his jaw!”

“Say, cull,” said Rivington, pushing back his hat, “wot’s doin’?  Me and my friend’s taking a look down de old line—­see?  De copper tipped us off dat you was wise to de bowery.  Is dat right?”

I could not help admiring Rivington’s power of adapting himself to his surroundings.

“Donahue was right,” said the young man, frankly; “I was brought up on the Bowery.  I have been news-boy, teamster, pugilist, member of an organized band of ‘toughs,’ bartender, and a ‘sport’ in various meanings of the word.  The experience certainly warrants the supposition that I have at least a passing acquaintance with a few phases of Bowery life.  I will be pleased to place whatever knowledge and experience I have at the service of my friend Donahue’s friends.”