Rivington seemed ill at ease.

“I say,” he said—­somewhat entreatingly, “I thought—­you’re not stringing us, are you?  It isn’t just the kind of talk we expected.  You haven’t even said ‘Hully gee!’ once.  Do you really belong on the Bowery?”

“I am afraid,” said the Bowery boy, smilingly, “that at some time you have been enticed into one of the dives of literature and had the counterfeit coin of the Bowery passed upon you.  The ‘argot’ to which you doubtless refer was the invention of certain of your literary ‘discoverers’ who invaded the unknown wilds below Third avenue and put strange sounds into the mouths of the inhabitants.  Safe in their homes far to the north and west, the credulous readers who were beguiled by this new ‘dialect’ perused and believed.  Like Marco Polo and Mungo Park—­pioneers indeed, but ambitious souls who could not draw the line of demarcation between discovery and invention—­the literary bones of these explorers are dotting the trackless wastes of the subway.  While it is true that after the publication of the mythical language attributed to the dwellers along the Bowery certain of its pat phrases and apt metaphors were adopted and, to a limited extent, used in this locality, it was because our people are prompt in assimilating whatever is to their commercial advantage.  To the tourists who visited our newly discovered clime, and who expected a realization of their literary guide books, they supplied the demands of the market.

“But perhaps I am wandering from the question.  In what way can I assist you, gentlemen?  I beg you will believe that the hospitality of the street is extended to all.  There are, I regret to say, many catchpenny places of entertainment, but I cannot conceive that they would entice you.”

I felt Rivington lean somewhat heavily against me.  “Say!” he remarked, with uncertain utterance; “come and have a drink with us.”

“Thank you, but I never drink.  I find that alcohol, even in the smallest quantities, alters the perspective.  And I must preserve my perspective, for I am studying the Bowery.  I have lived in it nearly thirty years, and I am just beginning to understand its heartbeats.  It is like a great river fed by a hundred alien streams.  Each influx brings strange seeds on its flood, strange silt and weeds, and now and then a flower of rare promise.  To construe this river requires a man who can build dykes against the overflow, who is a naturalist, a geologist, a humanitarian, a diver and a strong swimmer.  I love my Bowery.  It was my cradle and is my inspiration.  I have published one book.  The critics have been kind.  I put my heart in it.  I am writing another, into which I hope to put both heart and brain.  Consider me your guide, gentlemen.  Is there anything I can take you to see, any place to which I can conduct you?”

I was afraid to look at Rivington except with one eye.

“Thanks,” said Rivington.  “We were looking up . . . that is . . . my friend . . . confound it; it’s against all precedent, you know . . . awfully obliged . . . just the same.”