As it chanced, he passed by “The Fried Cat”; and, clingy though the place was, lie felt an irresistible desire to enter it.  Seating himself, he ordered the regular dinner of the day.  The light was dim; the tablecloth was dirty; the attendance was irregular and distracted.  Littimer took one sip of the sour wine—­which had a flavor resembling vinegar and carmine ink in equal parts—­and left the further contents of his bottle untasted.  The soup, the stew, and the faded roast that were set before him, he could scarcely swallow; but a small cup of coffee at the end of the wellnigh Barmecide repast came in very palatably.

In default of prandial attractions, Littimer tried to occupy himself by looking at the people around him.  The omnifarious assembly included pale, prim-whiskered young clerks; shabby, lonely, sallow young women, whose sallowness and shabbiness stamped them with the mark of integrity; other females whose specious splendor was not nearly so reassuring; old men, broken-down men, middle-aged men of every description, except the well-to-do.

“Some of them,” Littimer reflected, “are no worse than I am.  But are any of them really any better?”

He could not convince himself that they were; yet his sympathies, somehow, went out toward this motley crowd.  It appeared to him very foolish that he should sympathize, but he could not help it.  “And, after all,” was the next thought that came to him, “are we to give pity to people, or withhold it, simply because they are better or worse than ourselves?  No; there is something more in it than that.”

Leaving “The Fried Cat” abruptly, he betook himself to an acquaintance who, he knew, was very active in charities—­a man who worked practically, and gave time to the work.

“Do you visit any of your distress cases to-night?” he asked.

“Yes, I shall make a few calls,” answered the man of charity.  “Would you like to go along?”

“Very much.”

So the two started out together.  The places they went to were of various kinds, and revealed a considerable diversity of misfortune.  Sometimes they entered tenement houses of the most wretched character; but in other instances they went to small and cheap but decent lodgings over the shops on West Side avenues, or even penetrated into boarding-houses of such good appearance that the banker was surprised to find his friend’s mission carrying him thither.  All the cases, however, had been studied, and were vouched for; and several were those of young men and women having employment, but temporarily disabled, and without friends who could help them.

“You do well to help these beginners, at critical times,” said the banker, with satisfaction.  “I take a special interest in them.”

It was almost the same as if he were receiving relief himself.  Who knows?  Perhaps he was; but to the outward eye it appeared merely that, with his friend’s sanction, he was dispensing money and offers of goodwill to the needy.  What a strange freak it was, though, in Littimer!  He kept on with the work until quite late in the evening, regardless of the risk he ran by continuing out-of-doors when so ill shod.