'tis not hard to be a friend to the poor, for ye get puffed up by
gratitude and have your picture printed standing in front of a tenement
with a scuttle of coal and an orphan in each hand. But it strains the
art of friendship to be true friend to a born fool. And that's what I'm
doing," says I, "for, in my opinion, there's no fortune to be read from
the palm of me hand that wasn't printed there with the handle of a pick.
And, though ye've got the crookedest nose in New York City, I misdoubt
that all the fortune-tellers doing business could milk good luck from
ye. But the lines of Danny's hand pointed to ye fair, and I'll assist
him to experiment with ye until he's convinced ye're dry."

After that the man turns, sudden, to laughing. He leans against a corner
and laughs considerable. Then he claps me and Tobin on the backs of us
and takes us by an arm apiece.

"'Tis my mistake," says he. "How could I be expecting anything so fine
and wonderful to be turning the corner upon me? I came near being found
unworthy. Hard by," says he, "is a cafe, snug and suitable for the
entertainment of idiosyncrasies. Let us go there and have drink while we
discuss the unavailability of the categorical."

So saying, he marched me and Tobin to the back room of a saloon, and
ordered the drinks, and laid the money on the table. He looks at me and
Tobin like brothers of his, and we have the segars.

"Ye must know," says the man of destiny, "that me walk in life is
one that is called the literary. I wander abroad be night seeking
idiosyncrasies in the masses and truth in the heavens above. When ye
came upon me I was in contemplation of the elevated road in conjunction
with the chief luminary of night. The rapid transit is poetry and art:
the moon but a tedious, dry body, moving by rote. But these are private
opinions, for, in the business of literature, the conditions are
reversed. 'Tis me hope to be writing a book to explain the strange
things I have discovered in life."

"Ye will put me in a book," says Tobin, disgusted; "will ye put me in a
book?"

"I will not," says the man, "for the covers will not hold ye. Not yet.
The best I can do is to enjoy ye meself, for the time is not ripe for
destroying the limitations of print. Ye would look fantastic in type.
All alone by meself must I drink this cup of joy. But, I thank ye, boys;
I am truly grateful."

"The talk of ye," says Tobin, blowing through his moustache and pounding
the table wi