I struck New York about noon one day, and took a walk up Broadway.  And I run against Silver himself, all encompassed up in a spacious kind of haberdashery, leaning against a hotel and rubbing the half-moons on his nails with a silk handkerchief.

“Paresis or superannuated?” I asks him.

“Hello, Billy,” says Silver; “I’m glad to see you.  Yes, it seemed to me that the West was accumulating a little too much wiseness.  I’ve been saving New York for dessert.  I know it’s a low-down trick to take things from these people.  They only know this and that and pass to and fro and think ever and anon.  I’d hate for my mother to know I was skinning these weak-minded ones.  She raised me better.”

“Is there a crush already in the waiting rooms of the old doctor that does skin grafting?” I asks.

“Well, no,” says Silver; “you needn’t back Epidermis to win to-day.  I’ve only been here a month.  But I’m ready to begin; and the members of Willie Manhattan’s Sunday School class, each of whom has volunteered to contribute a portion of cuticle toward this rehabilitation, may as well send their photos to the Evening Daily.

“I’ve been studying the town,” says Silver, “and reading the papers every day, and I know it as well as the cat in the City Hall knows an O’Sullivan.  People here lie down on the floor and scream and kick when you are the least bit slow about taking money from them.  Come up in my room and I’ll tell you.  We’ll work the town together, Billy, for the sake of old times.”

Silver takes me up in a hotel.  He has a quantity of irrelevant objects lying about.

“There’s more ways of getting money from these metropolitan hayseeds,” says Silver, “than there is of cooking rice in Charleston, S. C. They’ll bite at anything.  The brains of most of ’em commute.  The wiser they are in intelligence the less perception of cognizance they have.  Why, didn’t a man the other day sell J. P. Morgan an oil portrait of Rockefeller, Jr., for Andrea del Sarto’s celebrated painting of the young Saint John!

“You see that bundle of printed stuff in the corner, Billy?  That’s gold mining stock.  I started out one day to sell that, but I quit it in two hours.  Why?  Got arrested for blocking the street.  People fought to buy it.  I sold the policeman a block of it on the way to the station-house, and then I took it off the market.  I don’t want people to give me their money.  I want some little consideration connected with the transaction to keep my pride from being hurt.  I want ’em to guess the missing letter in Chic—­go, or draw to a pair of nines before they pay me a cent of money.

“Now there’s another little scheme that worked so easy I had to quit it.  You see that bottle of blue ink on the table?  I tattooed an anchor on the back of my hand and went to a bank and told ’em I was Admiral Dewey’s nephew.  They offered to cash my draft on him for a thousand, but I didn’t know my uncle’s first name.  It shows, though, what an easy town it is.  As for burglars, they won’t go in a house now unless there’s a hot supper ready and a few college students to wait on ’em.  They’re slugging citizens all over the upper part of the city and I guess, taking the town from end to end, it’s a plain case of assault and Battery.”