A picture of my bag being carried ashore by Schnitzel in the uniform of a ship’s steward rather pleased me.

“Go on, you’re kidding!” said Schnitzel.  He was drawn between believing I was deeply impressed and with fear that I was mocking him.

“On the contrary,” I protested, “I don’t feel quite safe myself.  Seeing me with you they may think I have papers around my neck.”

“They wouldn’t look at you,” Schnitzel reassured me.  “They know you’re just an amateur.  But, as you say, with me, it’s different.  I got to be careful.  Now, you mightn’t believe it, but I never go near my uncle nor none of my friends that live where I used to hang out.  If I did, the other spies would get on my track.  I suppose,” he went on grandly, “I never go out in New York but that at least two spies are trailing me.  But I know how to throw them off.  I live ’way down town in a little hotel you never heard of.  You never catch me dining at Sherry’s nor the Waldorf.  And you never met me out socially, did you, now?”

I confessed I had not.

“And then, I always live under an assumed name.”

“Like ’Jones’?” I suggested.

“Well, sometimes ’Jones’,” he admitted.

“To me,” I said, “‘Jones’ lacks imagination.  It’s the sort of name you give when you’re arrested for exceeding the speed limit.  Why don’t you call yourself Machiavelli?”

“Go on, I’m no dago,” said Schnitzel, “and don’t you go off thinking ‘Jones’ is the only disguise I use.  But I’m not tellin’ what it is, am I?  Oh, no.”

“Schnitzel,” I asked, “have you ever been told that you would make a great detective?”

“Cut it out,” said Schnitzel.  “You’ve been reading those fairy stories.  There’s no fly cops nor Pinks could do the work I do.  They’re pikers compared to me.  They chase petty-larceny cases and kick in doors.  I wouldn’t stoop to what they do.  It’s being mixed up the way I am with the problems of two governments that catches me.”  He added magnanimously, “You see something of that yourself.”

We left the ship at Brooklyn, and with regret I prepared to bid Schnitzel farewell.  Seldom had I met a little beast so offensive, but his vanity, his lies, his moral blindness, made one pity him.  And in ten days in the smoking-room together we had had many friendly drinks and many friendly laughs.  He was going to a hotel on lower Broadway, and as my cab, on my way uptown, passed the door, I offered him a lift.  He appeared to consider the advisability of this, and then, with much by-play of glancing over his shoulder, dived into the front seat and drew down the blinds.  “This hotel I am going to is an old-fashioned trap,” he explained, “but the clerk is wise to me, understand, and I don’t have to sign the register.”

As we drew nearer to the hotel, he said:  “It’s a pity we can’t dine out somewheres and go to the theatre, but—­you know?”

With almost too much heartiness I hastily agreed it would be imprudent.