"So it was--so it was. Well, I was getting close. Glad to meet you, Mr. Thompson. That is my name." He handed over a bit of pasteboard, inscribed;

MR. J.F. MITCh.e.l.l

"On Vesey Street now, just south of Barclay Street Ferry. I'll jot down the number--you want to come round and look me up. Sorry I can't ask you to use my house for headquarters. Wife's away to Bar Harbor for the summer, and I'm camping out in a hotel. Tell you what, though--you put up at my caravanserai--the Cornucopia--good house, treat you well. I'll be busy a day or so catching up after my trip up-state, but after that I'll show you around. But perhaps you've been here before?"

"Not I," said Steve. "My first trip. Haven't been out of Montana since I was a kid. I'm sure glad to meet a friend so soon."

"Lots of Montana people here," said Mitch.e.l.l cheerily. "We'll look 'em up. Probably find some of your old friends. People here from everywhere. Say--Judge Harney got into a bad mix-up, didn't he? That young Charley Clark is a devil. I've met him up here." With this he launched into a discussion of b.u.t.te, with inquiries as to various figures of local prominence, from which Steve was fain to escape by turning the talk on his final good luck, the sale of his mine and his rosy prospects. For Mitch.e.l.l had "crammed up" on b.u.t.te industriously.

Steve lacked his facilities, his sole source of information being certain long-past campfire tales of Neighbor Jones.

"Made it at last, did you? Glad to hear it. Can't keep a good man down, as the whale said to Jonah," said Mitch.e.l.l heartily. "'But with all thy getting, get understanding,'" he quoted with unctuous benevolence. "The city is full of traps for the unwary. You can't be too careful, young man. Don't be drawn into gambling, or drinking, or fast company, or you'll be robbed before you know it. Watch out for pickpockets, and, above all, be chary of making acquaintance with strangers. They're sly down here, my boy--devilish sly. Have you any friends in town? If you have, get them to go around with you till you learn the ropes."

"Don't know a soul but you," said Steve truthfully. "But I have a letter here to the people who are putting the sale through. Do you know these people?"

"Atwood, Strange & Atwood," Mitch.e.l.l read. "A good, reliable firm.

I don't know them, but I know of 'em. They will advise you just as I do."

"But," objected Steve, "I want to see a good time. That's what I come for. For instance, I want to see the races. And naturally, I want to put up a few dollars to make it interesting."

"Bad business--bad business," admonished the elder man wisely. "I don't object to a quiet game of cards myself, among friends, and for modest stakes. But I can't afford to do anything to hurt my business reputation. Let a man of small means, like myself, play the ponies, or affect shady company, and what happens? All the banks know it at once, and shut down on loans instanter. They keep tab on all business men religiously."

"What's your line?" said Steve, impressed.

"Mainly buying on commission for Mexican and South American trade--though I handle a good many orders for country dealers, too,"

replied Mitch.e.l.l. "My specialty is agricultural implements, barbed wire, machinery and iron stuff generally, for the export trade.

There's things about it would surprise you. Why, such things, farm machinery more especially, retail in Buenos Ayres at from 40 to 60 per cent, of what they do here, after paying freight charges and a snug commission to me."

"How can they do it?" asked Steve, interested.

Mitch.e.l.l plunged into an explanation of the workings of the tariff and its effect on home prices. He had it at his fingers' end. Under his skillful hands the dry subject became really interesting, embellished with a wealth of ill.u.s.tration and anecdote. He was still deep in his exposition, when, beyond Scranton, a hand was laid on his arm. A dapper, little, dark man, with twinkling, black eyes and pointed black beard, stood in the aisle.

"Well, Mitch.e.l.l!" he said, with an affectionate pat. "Still riding your hobby?"

The fat man jumped up, beaming. "Loring! by all that's holy! Let me make you acquainted with my friend. Mr. Thompson--Mr. Loring. Mr.

Loring is one of our rising young artists."

"The rising young artist," said Loring with a flash of white teeth, "is trying to get up a whist game, to pa.s.s away the time. Will you gentlemen a.s.sist?" He turned aside in a paroxysm of coughing.

"Certainly, certainly--that is, if Mr. Thompson plays.----That's a bad cough you've got there, Loring."

"Yes--caught cold fishing," said the artist. "Will you join us, Mr.

Thompson?"

"Glad to," said that worthy. "Only my game is b.u.mble-puppy. You can hardly call it whist. Who's the fourth?"

"Yet to be found," laughed Loring. After a few rebuffs they picked up a drummer, and adjourned to the smoker, buying a deck from the train boy. The little dark man and Steve played against the other two, a suitcase on their knees serving as a table. They played a rubber.

Steve verified his statements as to his style of play.

"Well, that's enough--nearly in," said Loring, as they drew near their destination.

"Yes, indeed. I must go back to my car. We've had a pleasant game,"

said the fourth man, taking his leave.

"Have a smoke--you'll find these A 1," said the artist. "Say, Mitch.e.l.l, I've learned a new trick to ill.u.s.trate the old saying that the hand is quicker than the eye." Sticking a cigar in the corner of his mouth, he ran over the cards swiftly, took out the two red jacks, and held them up, one in each hand, backs toward himself, faces to Mitch.e.l.l and Steve.

"Now," he said, "you can put these two jacks in the deck wherever you wish, shuffle them all you please, let me give them just one riffle, and you'll find them both together." He put his handkerchief to his lips and turned away to cough, laying the two jacks face downward on the table.

With a nudge to Steve, Mitch.e.l.l threw the jack of hearts under Loring's seat, where it lay, face up, subst.i.tuting therefor the five of clubs from the top of the deck.

Loring held the cards up again. "There are the two jacks, gentlemen: the two inseparable jacks. Put them in for yourselves, and watch me--_close_!"

Steve took the five of clubs and put it in the middle. Mitch.e.l.l put in the jack of diamonds. Both shuffled. Loring cut the pack into two equal parts, using only the extreme tip ends of his fingers, and shoved them together in the same fashion. Balancing the deck on the open palm of his left hand, he turned the cards carefully with his right thumb and forefinger, keeping up a running fire of comment.

"Now watch me! This trick won't work with any other cards but the jacks. The reason is easy to see. Where you find one knave there's always another close by. 'Birds of a feather flock together,' you know. Ah! here we are!" He turned over the knave of diamonds, and laid the deck down. "Now," he said to Mitch.e.l.l, "what'll you bet the next card isn't the knave of hearts?" Here he was again attacked by that excruciating cough.

As he turned away Mitch.e.l.l slyly turned up the corner of the next card, winking at Steve. It was the five of clubs. Evidently Loring had done the trick right, except for the subst.i.tuted card.

"I'll bet you five hundred dollars!" said Mitch.e.l.l jubilantly. He drew out a billbook and shook a handful of notes at the artist. "A thousand, if you like!"

"n.o.body wants to rob you, Mitch.e.l.l," laughed Loring. "Put up your money. I don't need it. I'll do the trick, of course." Steve was laughing immoderately.

"Rob me! Go ahead! You're welcome!" said Mitch.e.l.l, riotously radiant.

He waved the bills before Loring's eyes. "Money talks! Yah! You haven't the nerve to bet on it," he taunted, his knee touching Steve's under the table.

Loring's black eyes snapped maliciously. "Oh, well, you insist on it,"

he said. "I've warned you now, remember! No rebate on this. How much?"

He pulled out a fat rubber-banded roll and began stripping bills from the outside.

"A thousand--all you want!" shouted Mitch.e.l.l, in high glee. "Getting on, Thompson?"

Steve, still laughing, shook his head. "I'll be stakeholder," he said in a choking voice.

The black-eyed man shot a malevolent glance at him as they put up the money in his hands. For he had a supernumerary jack of hearts, neatly palmed, to turn up if Steve "bit." This quickly disappeared, however, or rather did not appear at all. With an expectant smile the artist turned up from the top of the deck the five of clubs. He looked at it in stupefied amazement, which, if not real, was well invented.

Mitch.e.l.l roared and pounded the suitcase. "Oh, _Loring_!" he gasped, drying his eyes. "You _will_ teach an old dog new tricks, will you?

My stars, but you're easy!" Retook the cash from the grinning stakeholder, counted out Loring's half and pushed it over to that much discomfited gentleman. "I don't want to rob you!" he quoted mockingly.

"But if I had time I'd have kept you on the anxious seat a while.

There's your jack of hearts, under your feet!"

"Why, you fat, old swindler! You white-headed outrage--you--you Foxy Grandpa!" cried Loring in blushing chagrin--not wholly dissembled, either. "I ought to make you eat it. Come, have a drink." He led the way, the others following with gibe and jeer.

"Why didn't you bet with him, Thompson?" demanded Mitch.e.l.l, still shaking with Homeric laughter. "Say, I should have kept his money, by good rights. 'Twould have been the joke of the season!"

Steve raised his gla.s.s. "I would," he replied innocently, "but I knew you'd give it back, anyhow, so what's the use--among friends? If it had been a stranger, now, I'd 'a' hopped on the band-wagon too quick.

I like a little easy money as well as anybody. Well, here's to our next meeting!"

"h.e.l.lo!" said Mitch.e.l.l. "Here's the tunnel and Hoboken. Let's go back to our belongings. Now, Thompson, business first and pleasure after, you know. You take the Barclay Street boat. If I don't get time to see you before noon to-morrow you run up to the office and see me. It's only a block from the Cornucopia. I've got to go the other way, and so does Loring--at least his studio's uptown. I say, Loring, tell Mr.

Thompson what's doing at the theatres. That's in your line."