Our hero’s manner with women was a gentle manly deference; his begging showed no trace of servility, but he was always polite.  He accepted failure with good grace, and did not resent scorn, abuse, or even violence from intended victims.  He was rarely combative.  Fighting was not his special gift; he met misfortune with patient passivity Resistance he found a mistake.  But for all this a certain sense of superiority was, never wanting in Nickie the Kid; the shabbiest clothes, a deplorable hat, fragmentary boots, shirtlessness, the most distressing situations all failed to wholly eliminate a touch of impudent dignity, a trace of rakish self-satisfaction which as a rule escaped the attention of his clients; but, here and there, a student of human nature found it delightfully whimsical.  Sometimes it appeared that this spice of egotism sprang from a blackguardly sense of humour that found joy in the abounding weaknesses and simplicity of the people he imposed upon, but, on the other hand, it would be sufficient to show that Mr. Crips was inspired only with gross selfishness or to comprehend that the stability of society depends upon fair dealing and faithful labour.

Nevertheless there were occasions when Nickie the Kid deliberately undertook to earn his daily bread.  For a week he served as waiter in a six penny restaurant.  He had been a “super” in drama and a practical crocodile in pantomime and was long in the employ of a fashionable undertaker as second in command on the hearse.  In this latter billet he had to keep his hair dyed a presentable black, but otherwise the duties were light, and Nickie might still have been useful mute, only that he had the misfortune to get drunk at the funeral of an eminent politician and behaved himself in a way obnoxious to the other mourners.

Some credit must be given to Crips for the above in view of the fact that he had long, since discovered how unnecessary work was to a man free of prejudices and unhampered with conscience.  Every man should be master of his own conscience, and the exactions of conscience should be subordinate to the needs of the body.  That was a large part of Nickie’s philosophy, and he had acted up to it with marked success, but this morning housewives were incredulous and tough, and our hero was faring badly.

He entered the yard of Ebonwell, the chemist, and was about to knock, when his eye fell upon a well-worn Gladstone bag full of small bottles.  In the course of long experience as a beat, Nickie had learned the value of prompt action.  He gently snapped up the bag, and jauntily to the gate.  Here he collided with a female entering in a hurry.

“Was yeh wantin’ anythin’, mister?” said the woman suspiciously.

“Good morning, madam,” said Nickie, with unction.  “Can I tune your piano this morning?” His manner was most courteous, he smiled kindly, but he did not invite attention to the bag.

“No yeh can’t,” snapped the woman, “an’ a good reason why—­coz we ain’t got a pianner to toon.”