efore your eyes. 'Look out,' says she, 'for a
dark man and a light woman; they'll bring ye trouble.' Have ye forgot
the nigger man, though he got some of it back from me fist? Can ye show
me a lighter woman than the blonde lady that was the cause of me hat
falling in the water? And where's the dollar sixty-five I had in me vest
when we left the shooting gallery?"

The way Tobin put it, it did seem to corroborate the art of prediction,
though it looked to me that these accidents could happen to any one at
Coney without the implication of palmistry.

Tobin got up and walked around on deck, looking close at the passengers
out of his little red eyes. I asked him the interpretation of his
movements. Ye never know what Tobin has in his mind until he begins to
carry it out.

"Ye should know," says he, "I'm working out the salvation promised by
the lines in me palm. I'm looking for the crooked-nose man that's to
bring the good luck. 'Tis all that will save us. Jawn, did ye ever see
a straighter-nosed gang of hellions in the days of your life?"

'Twas the nine-thirty boat, and we landed and walked up-town through
Twenty-second Street, Tobin being without his hat.

On a street corner, standing under a gas-light and looking over the
elevated road at the moon, was a man. A long man he was, dressed decent,
with a segar between his teeth, and I saw that his nose made two twists
from bridge to end, like the wriggle of a snake. Tobin saw it at the
same time, and I heard him breathe hard like a horse when you take the
saddle off. He went straight up to the man, and I went with him.

"Good-night to ye," Tobin says to the man. The man takes out his segar
and passes the compliments, sociable.

"Would ye hand us your name," asks Tobin, "and let us look at the size
of it? It may be our duty to become acquainted with ye."

"My name" says the man, polite, "is Friedenhausman--Maximus G.
Friedenhausman."

"'Tis the right length," says Tobin. "Do you spell it with an 'o'
anywhere down the stretch of it?"

"I do not," says the man.

"_Can_ ye spell it with an 'o'?" inquires Tobin, turning anxious.

"If your conscience," says the man with the nose, "is indisposed toward
foreign idioms ye might, to please yourself, smuggle the letter into the
penultimate syllable."

"'Tis well," says Tobin. "Ye're in the presence of Jawn Malone and
Daniel Tobin."

"Tis highly appreciated," says the man, with a bow. "And now since I
cannot conceive