by buying them whatever little dainties they desired, but such a comfortable state of affairs could not long continue with that bunch.  Suddenly, without any previous consultation, as if drawn together as it were by some fiendish undercurrent, they decided to make me unhappy—­me, the only guy that spoke unbroken English in the crowd.  This is the way they accomplished their low ends.  When the next civilian came along they all of them shouted at me in tones that could be heard by all passers-by: 

“Here comes a ‘ciwilian,’ buddy; he’ll give you a quarter.”

“Do you need some money, my boy?” said the old gentleman to me in a kindly voice.

“No, sir,” I stammered, getting red all over, “thank you very much, but I really don’t need any money.”

Ironical laughter from my friends in the background.

“Oh, no,” cries Tim sarcastically, “he don’t need no money.  Just watch him when he sees the color of it.”

“Don’t hesitate, my son,” continued the kind old man, “if you need anything I would be glad to help you out.”

“No, sir,” I replied, turning away to hide my mortification, “everything is all right.”

“Poor but proud,” hisses the “Spider.”  The old gentleman passed on, sorely perplexed.

For some time I was a victim of this crude plot.  When I tried to move away they followed me around the streets, crying after me: 

“Any ‘ciwilian’ will give you a quarter.  Go on an’ ask them.”

Several ladies stopped and asked if they could be of any service to me.  I assured them that they couldn’t, but all the time these low sailors whom I had been feeding lavishly kept jeering and intimating that I was fooling and would take any amount of money offered me from a dime up.  This shower of conflicting statements always left the kindhearted people in a confused frame of mind and broke me up completely.  I had to chase one man all the way down the street and hand him back the quarter he had thrust into my hand.  My friends never forgave me for this.

At length, tiring of their sport, they desisted and stood gloomily on the curb as sailors do, looking idly at nothing.

“It don’t look like we was ever going to get a hitch,” said the “Spider,” after we had abandonedly offered ourselves to several automobiles.

At that moment a huge machine rolled heavily by.

“There goes a piece of junk,” said Tim.  The lady in the machine must have heard him, for the car came to and she motioned for us to get in.

“Going our way?” she asked, smiling at us.

“Thanks, lady,” replies Tim, elbowing me aside as he climbed aboard.

“Dust your feet,” I whispered to Tony as he was about to climb in.

“Whatta you mean, dusta my feet?” shouted Tony wrathfully, “you go head an’ dusta your feet!  I look out for my feet all right.”

“What did he want yer to do, Tony?” asked Tim in a loud voice.