“Ah, flutter by, idle one!” says I.  “I’m no soup ticket.”

[Illustration:  “Ah, flutter by, idle one!” says I.]

“But just a word, my friend,” he insists.

“Save your breath,” says I, “and have it redistilled.  It’s worth it.”

“Thanks,” he puffs out as he shuffles along at my elbow; “but—­but wasn’t that Bob Ellins you were just talking to?”

“Eh?” says I, glancin’ at him some astonished; for a seedier specimen you couldn’t find up and down the avenue.  “What do you know about him, if it was?”

“More than his name,” says the wreck.  “He—­he’s an old friend of mine.”

“Oh, of course,” says I.  “Anyone could tell that at a glimpse.  I expect you used to belong to the same club too?”

“Is old Barney still on the door?” says he.

And, say, he had the right dope on that.  Not three minutes before I’d heard Mr. Robert call the old gink by name.  But that hardly proved the case.

“Clever work,” says I.  “What was it you used to do there, take out the ashes.”

“I don’t wonder you think so,” says he; “but it’s a fact that Bob and I are old friends.”

“Why don’t you tackle him, then,” says I, “instead of botherin’ a busy man like me?  Go back and call him out.”

“I haven’t the face,” says he.  “Look at me!”

“I have,” says I, “and, if you ask me, you look like something the cat brought in.”

He winces a little at that.  “Don’t tell Bob how bad it was, then,” says he.  “Just say you let me have a fiver for him.”

“Five bucks!” says I.  “Say, I’m Mr. Robert’s office boy, not his bank account.”

“Two, then?” he goes on.

“My, but I must have the boob mark on me plain!” says I.

“Couldn’t you spare a half,” he urges, “just a half, to get me a little something to eat, and a drink, and pay for a bed?”

“Oh, sure!” says I.  “I carry a pocketful of halves to shove out to all the bums that presents their business cards.”

“But Bob would give it back to you,” he pleads.  “I swear he would!  Just tell him you gave it to—­to——­”

“Well?” says I.  “Algernon who?”

“Tell him it was for Melville Slater,” says he.  “He’ll know.”

“Melly Slater, eh?” says I.  “Sounds all aright.  But I’d have to chew it over first, even for a half.  I have chances of gettin’ stung like this about four times a day, Melly.  And, anyway, I got to file a message first, over at the next corner.”

“I’ll wait outside,” says he.

“That’s nice of you,” says I.  “It ain’t any cinch you’ll connect, though.”

But as I dashes into a hotel where there’s a blue sign out he leans up against a window gratin’, sort of limp and exhausted, and it looks like he means to take a sportin’ chance.

How you goin’ to tell, anyway?  Most of ’em say they’ve been thrown out of work by the trusts, but that they’ve heard of a job in Newark, or Bridgeport, or somewhere, which they could get if they could only rustle enough coin to pay the fare.  And they’ll add interestin’ details about havin’ a sick wife, or maybe four hungry kids, and so on.