He felt a hand on his shoulder, and, turning, saw a face grinning a friendly recognition.  It was a face whose whole expression was oleaginous.  It was surmounted by a low and shining forehead covered by reeking black hair, worn rather long, the ends being turned under by the brush.  The mustache was long and drooping, dyed black and profusely oiled, the dye and the grease forming an inharmonious compound.  The parted lips, which were coarse and thin, displayed an imperfect set of teeth, much discolored with tobacco.  The eyes were light green, with the space which should have been white suffused with yellow and red.  It was one of those gifted countenances which could change in a moment from a dog-like fawning to a snaky venomousness.

The man wore a black hat of soft felt; his clothes were black and glistening with use and grease.  He was of medium height, not especially stout, but still strong and well knit; he moved too briskly for a tramp, and his eyes were too sly and furtive to belong to an honest man.

“Well, Samivel!” he began, with a jolly facetiousness, “what’s your noble game this evenin’?  You look like you was down on your luck.  Is the fair one unkind?”

Sam turned upon him with an angry gesture.

“Hold your jaw, or I’ll break it for you!  Ever since I was fool enough to mention that thing to you, you’ve been cacklin’ about it.  I’ve had enough of it.”

“Go slow, Quaker!” the man rejoined.  “If you can’t take a joke, I’ll stop jokin’—­that settles it.  Come along and get a glass of beer, and you’ll feel better.”

They soon came to a garden near the lake, and sat down by a little table at their beer.  The consumers were few and silent.  The garden was dimly lighted, for the spring came slowly up that way, and the air was not yet conducive to out-door idling.  The greasy young man laid a dirty hand on the arm of Sleeny, and said: 

“Honor bright, now, old fellow, I didn’t mean to rough, you when I said that.  I don’t want to hurt your feelings or lose your confidence.  I want you to tell me how you are gettin’ along.  You ain’t got no better friend than me nowhere.”

“Oh,” said Sam, sulkily, “I got nothin’ to say.  She don’t no more care for me than that there mug.”

The expression that came over his friend’s face at these discouraged words was not one of sympathetic sorrow.  But he put some sympathy into his voice as he said: 

“Jest think of that!  Such a fine young fellow as you are, too.  Where can her eyes be?  And I seen you walking this evenin’ by the lake just like two robins.  And yet you don’t get ahead any!”

“Not a step,” said Sam.

“Anybody in your light, you think?  Hullo there, Dutchy, swei glass.  Any other fellow takin’ your wind?” and his furtive eyes darted a keen interrogation.  Sam did not answer at once, and his friend went on:  “Why, she don’t hardly know anybody but me and you, and, he-he!  I wouldn’t stand no chance at all against you—­hum?”