“‘Did you fix things up with the General?’ I asks him.

“‘Did I?’ says Denver.  ‘Come and see.’

“He takes me by the arm and walks me to the dining-room door.  There was a little chocolate-brown fat man in a dress suit, with his face shining with joy as he swelled himself and skipped about the floor.  Danged if Denver hadn’t made General Rompiro head waiter of the Hotel Brunswick!”

“Is Mr. Galloway still in the managing business?” I asked, as Mr. Magoon ceased.

Sully shook his head.

“Denver married an auburn-haired widow that owns a big hotel in Harlem.  He just helps around the place.”

XIX

WHISTLING DICK’S CHRISTMAS STOCKING

It was with much caution that Whistling Dick slid back the door of the box-car, for Article 5716, City Ordinances, authorized (perhaps unconstitutionally) arrest on suspicion, and he was familiar of old with this ordinance.  So, before climbing out, he surveyed the field with all the care of a good general.

He saw no change since his last visit to this big, alms-giving, long-suffering city of the South, the cold weather paradise of the tramps.  The levee where his freight-car stood was pimpled with dark bulks of merchandise.  The breeze reeked with the well-remembered, sickening smell of the old tarpaulins that covered bales and barrels.  The dun river slipped along among the shipping with an oily gurgle.  Far down toward Chalmette he could see the great bend in the stream, outlined by the row of electric lights.  Across the river Algiers lay, a long, irregular blot, made darker by the dawn which lightened the sky beyond.  An industrious tug or two, coming for some early sailing ship, gave a few appalling toots, that seemed to be the signal for breaking day.  The Italian luggers were creeping nearer their landing, laden with early vegetables and shellfish.  A vague roar, subterranean in quality, from dray wheels and street cars, began to make itself heard and felt; and the ferryboats, the Mary Anns of water craft, stirred sullenly to their menial morning tasks.

Whistling Dick’s red head popped suddenly back into the car.  A sight too imposing and magnificent for his gaze had been added to the scene.  A vast, incomparable policeman rounded a pile of rice sacks and stood within twenty yards of the car.  The daily miracle of the dawn, now being performed above Algiers, received the flattering attention of this specimen of municipal official splendour.  He gazed with unbiased dignity at the faintly glowing colours until, at last, he turned to them his broad back, as if convinced that legal interference was not needed, and the sunrise might proceed unchecked.  So he turned his face to the rice bags, and, drawing a flat flask from an inside pocket, he placed it to his lips and regarded the firmament.