“Why, it must be seventy-five, at least.”
“Yes, I dare say—to those who have breakfasted, to those who dined last night and the night before; but when a man hasn’t eaten for forty-eight hours the rarest day of June is colder than Christmas Eve. Thundering guns!”
“You don’t mean to say—”
“Yes, I do mean to say. Now, tell me how I can earn a dollar at once—not tomorrow or tonight, but right now.”
And the little man, who had been looking very fiercely at Hugh, suddenly seemed about to collapse. Hugh caught him by the arm.
“Here, come with me,” he said.
In a moment both were seated at a table of the eating-shop within.
“Take some coffee first,” said Hugh, authoritatively, “and then—”
“Oh, you’re going to treat, are you? Well, now, my name is John Anderson—yes, sir, John Anderson, my Joe John—and it doesn’t rhyme with either beat or sponge. I won’t be treated. I may be indigent, but I am proud. Besides, if I had twopence I could become a millionaire.”
“You will let me,” said Hugh, seductively, “make you a little loan. I have two dollars, here is one. Pay me when you are a millionaire.”
At the sight of the coin the little man turned purple.
“Thundering guns!” he muttered, “yesterday I passed an hour at the Metropolitan Museum looking at a gold piece in a case. Give me your name and address.”
Before the open door of the eating-house a slender figure passed. Hugh jumped from his seat. It was she, he could have sworn. The little man caught him by the arm.
“Your name and address,” he repeated.
Hugh shook himself loose. In a second he was in the street. The slender figure was just turning the corner, but Hugh was right behind. When at last he overtook that slender figure he discovered that it belonged to a sallow brunette.
At the table in the eating-house the little man was muttering:
“But where the deuce have I seen him before?”
II
The next morning Hugh was hard at work gain. The painting before him was a wonder to behold. It represented a hall, similar to the interior of a temple—one in which fluted columns rose and met the dome; about it ran a gallery, and there, Heliogabalus, a painted boy of fifteen, lounged and laughed; near him were the magi come from afar to witness the nuptials of the Sun and Moon; opposite were musicians, and a little beyond a group of slaves were emptying huge baskets of lilies on the assembled guests beneath. Some of the latter, in flowers up to the waist, were trying to escape, but the door was barred. Others, aided by yellow couches, were trying to scale the wall and reach the gallery above, and on these a steady rain of red and white buds descended. In a corner, an avalanche of roses and violets had fallen, and from it men were struggling, their arms crooked, their eyes dilated. From the dome a glare of sunlight smote the purple draperies, danced on the sea of flowers and put a rainbow in the air. It was very gorgeous, a riot of splendid color, and to Hugh it meant nothing less than an encounter with that gracious lady whose name is Fame.
He was at work then on the sigma of gold on which the little emperor lounged, and that gold he was endeavoring to marry harmoniously with the brass of the trumpets and the crocus of the harps. The night before, on his return after a long tramp through Central Park, he had determined not to look again at the window across the court; for to look was to fall in love, and to fall in love meant “Fame, farewell!” and also “Starvation, welcome!” In spite of which, however, no sooner was his light extinguished than he took a look. Save a single star that glowed and glimmered, there was not a thing to be seen. Thereupon, with all the strength of virtuous resolutions, he had wrapped himself in slumber and dreams of her. And now on this particular morning, he had not tried more than ten or a dozen times to see if she were there.
The sigma was done, its gold properly married with the crocus and brass, and Hugh was about to get to work on a heap of lilies and hyacinths when a fresh incident occurred. Someone was knocking at the door.
“Come in!” Hugh cried, without looking round. It was Mrs. O’Hassadam, he was sure.
But though he heard the door open, he heard nothing that indicated the presence of that lady; no rich, loud greeting and rustle of broom. He turned his head. On the threshold stood a man, very gaunt and sickly, a man who looked as though he had a bad digestion and a worse conscience; he seemed feeble, too, timorous and apologetic. His coat would not have caused envy in the heart of a backwoodsman, and his trousers were elaborately patched. One foot was shod with a slipper, the other with a shoe; both were rusty, and the man himself exhaled an indefinable odor of must and decay. At a glance Hugh recognized the cross old person who, the day before, had shut the opposite window with a bang.
“H’m!” he mused. “He’s going to call me to account for flirting with his daughter. Well, let him. Who’s afraid?”
“We are neighbors, sir,” the old man began, with a stealthy air and a covert look about him.
“Take a seat, I pray you,” said Hugh, politely.
“And being neighbors, I thought I would venture to call.”
“A compliment which does me much honor, and one which I trust you will permit me to repay,” Hugh answered, with a fine flourish. “Be seated, I beg of you.”
“You are a stranger here,” the old man added, thoughtfully; “but I have lived in this house for the past ten years.”
“Dear me!”
“Yes; ten
