ing pushed
vigorously back and forth to make the desirable crease that would be
seen later on extending in straight lines from mr. Chandler's patent
leather shoes to the edge of his low-cut vest. So much of the hero's
toilet may be intrusted to our confidence. The remainder may be guessed
by those whom genteel poverty has driven to ignoble expedient. Our next
view of him shall be as he descends the steps of his lodging-house
immaculately and correctly clothed; calm, assured, handsome--in
appearance the typical new york young clubman setting out, slightly
bored, to inaugurate the pleasures of the evening.

Chandler's honorarium was $18 per week. He was employed in the office of
an architect. He was twenty-two years old; he considered architecture
to be truly an art; and he honestly believed--though he would not have
dared to admit it in New York--that the Flatiron Building was inferior
to design to the great cathedral in Milan.

Out of each week's earnings Chandler set aside $1. At the end of each
ten weeks with the extra capital thus accumulated, he purchased one
gentleman's evening from the bargain counter of stingy old Father Time.
He arrayed himself in the regalia of millionaires and presidents; he
took himself to the quarter where life is brightest and showiest, and
there dined with taste and luxury. With ten dollars a man may, for a
few hours, play the wealthy idler to perfection. The sum is ample for a
well-considered meal, a bottle bearing a respectable label, commensurate
tips, a smoke, cab fare and the ordinary etceteras.

This one delectable evening culled from each dull seventy was to
Chandler a source of renascent bliss. To the society bud comes but one
debut; it stands alone sweet in her memory when her hair has whitened;
but to Chandler each ten weeks brought a joy as keen, as thrilling, as
new as the first had been. To sit among _bon vivants_ under palms in
the swirl of concealed music, to look upon the _habitues_ of such a
paradise and to be looked upon by them--what is a girl's first dance
and short-sleeved tulle compared with this?

Up Broadway Chandler moved with the vespertine dress parade. For this
evening he was an exhibit as well as a gazer. For the next sixty-nine
evenings he would be dining in cheviot and worsted at dubious _table
d'hotes_, at whirlwind lunch counters, on sandwiches and beer in his
hall-bedroom. He was willing to do that, for he was a true son of the
great city of razzle-daz