The hour was now past a respectable bedtime and the Tenderloin had awakened.  The roar of commerce had dwindled away, and the comparative silence was broken only by the clang of an infrequent trolley.  The streets were empty of vehicles, except for a few cabs that followed the little group persistently.  As yet there was no need of them.  The crowd was made up, for the most part, of healthy, full-blooded boys, fresh from weeks of training, strong of body, and with stomachs like galvanized iron.  They showed scant evidence of intoxication.  As for the weakest member of the party, it had long been known that one drink made Higgins drunk, and all further libations merely served to maintain him in status quo.  Exhaustive experiments had proved that he was able to retain consciousness and the power of locomotion until the first streak of dawn appeared, after which he usually became a burden.  For the present he was amply able to take care of himself, and now, although his speech was slightly thick, his demeanor was as didactic and severe as ever, and, save for the vagrant workings of his mind, he might have passed for a curate.  As a whole, the crowd was in fine fettle.

The Austrian Village is a saloon, dance-hall, and all-night restaurant, flourishing brazenly within a stone’s throw of Broadway, and it is counted one of the sights of the city.  Upon entering, one may pass through a saloon where white-aproned waiters load trays and wrangle over checks, then into a ball-room filled with the flotsam and jetsam of midnight Manhattan.  Above and around this room runs a white-and-gold balcony partitioned into boxes; beneath it are many tables separated from the waxed floor by a railing.  Inside the enclosure men in street-clothes and smartly gowned girls with enormous hats revolve nightly to the strains of an orchestra which nearly succeeds in drowning their voices.  From the tables come laughter and snatches of song; waiters dash hither and yon.  It is all very animated and gay on the surface, and none but the closely observant would note the weariness beneath the women’s smiles, the laughter notes that occasionally jar, or perceive that the tailored gowns are imitations, the ermines mainly rabbit-skins.

But the eyes of youth are not analytical, and seen through a rosy haze the sight was inspiriting.  The college men selected a table, and, shouldering the occupants aside without ceremony, seated themselves and pounded for a waiter.

Padden, the proprietor, came toward them, and, after greeting Anthony and Higgins by a shake of his left hand, ducked his round gray head in acknowledgment of an introduction to the others.

“Excuse my right,” said he, displaying a swollen hand criss-crossed with surgeon’s plaster.  “A fellow got noisy last night.”

“D’jou hit him?” queried Higgins, gazing with interest at the proprietor’s knuckles.

“Yes.  I swung for his jaw and went high.  Teeth—­” Mr. Padden said, vaguely.  He turned a shrewd eye upon Anthony.  “I heard about the game to-day.  That was all right.”