might tinker with the lock," concluded Harry, running his fingers
through his hair to settle the curls; "it's worth a try, anyhow."

"You'll bounce right off," declared Mr. Daw. "I tried to put a sweet
one over in his home town, and he jolted the game so quick he made
its teeth rattle."

"Then you owe him one," persisted Mr. Phelps, whom it pained to see
other people have money. "Do you mean to say that any pumpkin husker
can't be trimmed?"

"Enjoy yourself," invited Mr. Daw with a retrospective smile, "but
count me out. I'm going to Boston next week, anyhow. I'm going to open
a mine investment office there. It's a nice easy money mining
district."

"For pocket mining," agreed his friend dryly.

Young Wallingford, in his desire for everybody to be happy, looked
around for them at this juncture, and further conversation was out of
the question. The quartet lounged out of the Fifth Avenue bar and
across Broadway in that dull way peculiar to their kind. At the
Hoffman House bar they were joined by a cadaverous gentleman known to
the police as Short-Card Larry, whose face was as that of a corpse,
but whose lithe, slender fingers were reputed to have brains of their
own, and the five of them sat down for a dull half-hour. Later they
had dull dinner together, strolled dully into four theaters, and,
still dull, wound up in the apartments of Daw and J. Rufus.

"What do you think of them?" asked Blackie in their first aside
moment.

"They give me the pip," announced J. Rufus frankly. "Why do they hate
themselves so? Why do they sit in the darkest corners and bark at
themselves? Can't they ever drink enough to get oiled happy?"

"Not and do business with strangers on Broadway," Daw explained.
"Phelps has been shy about thin glassware for five years, ever since
he let an Indiana come-on outdrink him and steal his own money back;
Billy Banting stops after the third glass of anything, on account of
his fat; the only time Larry Teller ever got pinched was for getting
spifflicated and telling a reporter what police protection cost him."

"If I wasn't waiting to see one of them bite himself and die of poison
I'd cut 'em out," returned Mr. Wallingford in the utmost disgust. "Any
one of them would slung-shot the others for the price of a cigarette.
Don't they ever get interested in anything?"

"Nothing but easy marks," replied Mr. Daw with a grin. "The way
they're treating you is a compliment. They're letting you just be one