“Well, presently this metropolitan backwoodsman pulls out a roll of bills with an old blue sleeve elastic fitting tight around it and opens it up.

“‘There’s $5,000, Mr. Peters,’ says he, shoving it over the table to me, ’saved during my fifteen years of business.  Put that in your pocket and keep it for me, Mr. Peters.  I’m glad to meet you gentlemen from the West, and I may take a drop too much.  I want you to take care of my money for me.  Now, let’s have another beer.’

[Illustration:  “‘I want you to take care of my money for me.’”]

“‘You’d better keep this yourself,’ says I.  ’We are strangers to you, and you can’t trust everybody you meet.  Put your roll back in your pocket,’ says I.  ’And you’d better run along home before some farm-hand from the Kaw River bottoms strolls in here and sells you a copper mine.’

“‘Oh, I don’t know,’ says Whiskers.  ’I guess Little Old New York can take care of herself.  I guess I know a man that’s on the square when I see him.  I’ve always found the Western people all right.  I ask you as a favor, Mr. Peters,’ says he, ’to keep that roll in your pocket for me.  I know a gentleman when I see him.  And now let’s have some more beer.’

“In about ten minutes this fall of manna leans back in his chair and snores.  Andy looks at me and says:  ’I reckon I’d better stay with him for five minutes or so, in case the waiter comes in.’

“I went out the side door and walked half a block up the street.  And then I came back and sat down at the table.

“‘Andy,’ says I, ’I can’t do it.  It’s too much like swearing off taxes.  I can’t go off with this man’s money without doing something to earn it like taking advantage of the Bankrupt act or leaving a bottle of eczema lotion in his pocket to make it look more like a square deal.’

“‘Well,’ says Andy, ’it does seem kind of hard on one’s professional pride to lope off with a bearded pard’s competency, especially after he has nominated you custodian of his bundle in the sappy insouciance of his urban indiscrimination.  Suppose we wake him up and see if we can formulate some commercial sophistry by which he will be enabled to give us both his money and a good excuse.’

“We wakes up Whiskers.  He stretches himself and yawns out the hypothesis that he must have dropped off for a minute.  And then he says he wouldn’t mind sitting in at a little gentleman’s game of poker.  He used to play some when he attended high school in Brooklyn; and as he was out for a good time, why—­and so forth.

“Andy brights up a little at that, for it looks like it might be a solution to our financial troubles.  So we all three go to our hotel further down Broadway and have the cards and chips brought up to Andy’s room.  I tried once more to make this Babe in the Horticultural Gardens take his five thousand.  But no.

“‘Keep that little roll for me, Mr. Peters,’ says he, ’and oblige.  I’ll ask you fer it when I want it.  I guess I know when I’m among friends.  A man that’s done business on Beekman street for twenty years, right in the heart of the wisest old village on earth, ought to know what he’s about.  I guess I can tell a gentleman from a con man or a flimflammer when I meet him.  I’ve got some odd change in my clothes —­enough to start the game with, I guess.’