“Yes,” said the Devil, philosophically, “I never caught anybody yet who didn’t say that; but tell me, ain’t you getting somewhat fastidious down there?  Here is one of my most popular flies, the greenback,” he continued, exhibiting an emerald-looking insect, which he drew from his box.  “This, so generally considered excellent in election season, has not even been nibbled at.  Perhaps your sagacity, which, in spite of this unfortunate contretemps, no one can doubt,” added the Devil, with a graceful return to his usual courtesy, “may explain the reason or suggest a substitute.”

The broker glanced at the contents of the box with a supercilious smile.  “Too old-fashioned, my lord,—­long ago played out.  Yet,” he added, with a gleam of interest, “for a consideration I might offer something—­ahem!—­that would make a taking substitute for these trifles.  Give me,” he continued, in a brisk, business-like way, “a slight percentage and a bonus down, and I’m your man.”

“Name your terms,” said the Devil, earnestly.

“My liberty and a percentage on all you take, and the thing’s done.”

The Devil caressed his tail thoughtfully, for a few moments.  He was certain of the broker any way, and the risk was slight.  “Done!” he said.

“Stay a moment,” said the artful broker.  “There are certain contingencies.  Give me your fishing-rod and let me apply the bait myself.  It requires a skilful hand, my lord; even your well-known experience might fail.  Leave me alone for half an hour, and if you have reason to complain of my success I will forfeit my deposit,—­I mean my liberty.”

The Devil acceded to his request, bowed, and withdrew.  Alighting gracefully in Montgomery Street, he dropped into Meade & Co.’s clothing store, where, having completely equipped himself a la mode, he sallied forth intent on his personal enjoyment.  Determining to sink his professional character, he mingled with the current of human life, and enjoyed, with that immense capacity for excitement peculiar to his nature, the whirl, bustle, and feverishness of the people, as a purely aesthetic gratification unalloyed by the cares of business.  What he did that evening does not belong to our story.  We return to the broker, whom we left on the roof.

When he made sure that the Devil had retired, he carefully drew from his pocket-book a slip of paper and affixed it on the hook.  The line had scarcely reached the current before he felt a bite.  The hook was swallowed.  To bring up his victim rapidly, disengage him from the hook, and reset his line, was the work of a moment.  Another bite and the same result.  Another, and another.  In a very few minutes the roof was covered with his panting spoil.  The broker could himself distinguish that many of them were personal friends; nay, some of them were familiar frequenters of the building on which they were now miserably stranded.  That the broker felt a certain satisfaction in being instrumental in thus misleading