Women’s rights societies have been laboring for many years after equality with man.  With what result?  When they sit on a bench they must twist their ankles together and uncomfortably swing their highest French heels clear of earthly support.  Begin at the bottom, ladies.  Get your feet on the ground, and then rise to theories of mental equality.

Hastings Beauchamp Morley was carefully and neatly dressed.  That was the result of an instinct due to his birth and breeding.  It is denied us to look further into a man’s bosom than the starch on his shirt front; so it is left to us only to recount his walks and conversation.

Morley had not a cent in his pockets; but he smiled pityingly at a hundred grimy, unfortunate ones who had no more, and who would have no more when the sun’s first rays yellowed the tall paper-cutter building on the west side of the square.  But Morley would have enough by then.  Sundown had seen his pockets empty before; but sunrise had always seen them lined.

First he went to the house of a clergyman off Madison avenue and presented a forged letter of introduction that holily purported to issue from a pastorate in Indiana.  This netted him $5 when backed up by a realistic romance of a delayed remittance.

On the sidewalk, twenty steps from the clergyman’s door, a pale-faced, fat man huskily enveloped him with a raised, red fist and the voice of a bell buoy, demanding payment of an old score.

“Why, Bergman, man,” sang Morley, dulcetly, “is this you?  I was just on my way up to your place to settle up.  That remittance from my aunt arrived only this morning.  Wrong address was the trouble.  Come up to the corner and I’ll square up.  Glad to see you.  Saves me a walk.”

Four drinks placated the emotional Bergman.  There was an air about Morley when he was backed by money in hand that would have stayed off a call loan at Rothschilds’.  When he was penniless his bluff was pitched half a tone lower, but few are competent to detect the difference in the notes.

“You gum to mine blace and bay me to-morrow, Mr. Morley,” said Bergman.  “Oxcuse me dat I dun you on der street.  But I haf not seen you in dree mont’.  Pros’t!”

Morley walked away with a crooked smile on his pale, smooth face.  The credulous, drink-softened German amused him.  He would have to avoid Twenty-ninth street in the future.  He had not been aware that Bergman ever went home by that route.

At the door of a darkened house two squares to the north Morley knocked with a peculiar sequence of raps.  The door opened to the length of a six-inch chain, and the pompous, important black face of an African guardian imposed itself in the opening.  Morley was admitted.

In a third-story room, in an atmosphere opaque with smoke, he hung for ten minutes above a roulette wheel.  Then downstairs he crept, and was out-sped by the important negro, jingling in his pocket the 40 cents in silver that remained to him of his five-dollar capital.  At the corner he lingered, undecided.