colour. He's anxious to meet one of the Bowery types. Can't you put us on to something genuine in that line -- something that's got the colour, you know?'
Policeman Donahue turned himself about ponder- ously, his florid face full of good-nature. He pointed with his club down the street.
'Sure!' he said huskily. 'Here comes a lad now that was born on the Bowery and knows every inch of it. If he's ever been above Bleecker street he's kept it to himself.'
A man about twenty-eight or twenty-nine, with a smooth face, was sauntering toward us with his hands in his coat pockets. Policeman Donahue stopped him with a courteous wave of his club.
'Evening, Kerry,' he said. 'Here's a couple of gents, friends of mine, that want to hear you spiel something about the Bowery. Can you reel 'em off a few yards?'
'Certainly, Donahue,' said the young man, pleas- antly. 'Good evening, gentlemen,' he said to us, with a pleasant smile. Donahue walked off on his beat.
'This is the goods,' whispered Rivington, nudging me with his elbow. 'Look at his jaw!'
'Say, cull,' said Rivington, pushing back his hat, wot's doin'? Me and my friend's taking a look down de old line -- see? De copper tipped us off dat you was wise to de bowery. Is dat right?'
I could not help admiring Rivington's power of adapt- ing himself to his surroundings.
'Donahue was right,' said the young man, frankly; 'I was brought up on the Bowery. I have been news- boy, teamster, pugilist, member of an organized band of 'toughs,' bartender, and a 'sport' in various mean- ings of the word. The experience certainly warrants the supposition that I have at least a passing acquaintance with a few phases of Bowery life. I will be pleased to place whatever knowledge and experience I have at the service of my friend Donahue's friends.'
Rivington seemed ill at ease.
'I say,' he said -- somewhat entreatingly, 'I thought -- you're not stringing us, are you? It isn't just the kind of talk we expected. You haven't even said 'Hully gee!' once. Do you really belong on the Bowery?'
'I am afraid,' said the Bowery boy, smilingly, 'that at some time you have been enticed into one of the dives of literature and had the counterfeit coin of the Bowery passed upon you. The 'argot' to which you doubtless refer was the invention of certain of your literary 'dis- coverers' who invaded the unknown wilds below Third avenue and put strange sounds into the mouths of the inhabitants. Safe in their homes far to the north and west, the credulous readers who were beguiled by this new 'dialect' perused and believed. Like Marco Polo and Mungo Park -- pioneers indeed, but ambitious souls who could not draw the line of demarcation between dis- covery and invention -- the literary bones of these explorers are dotting the trackless wastes of the sub- way. While it is true that after the publication of the mythical language attributed to the dwellers along the Bowery certain of its pat phrases and apt metaphors were adopted and, to a limited extent, used in this locality, it was because our people are prompt in assimilating whatever is to their commercial advantage. To the tourists who visited our newly discovered clime, and who expected a realization of their literary guide books, they supplied the demands of the market.
'But perhaps I am wandering from the question. In what way can I assist you, gentlemen? I beg you will believe that the hospitality of the street is extended to all. There are, I regret to say, many catchpenny places of entertainment, but I cannot conceive that they would entice you.'
I felt Rivington lean somewhat heavily against me. 'Say!' he remarked, with uncertain utterance; 'come and have a drink with us.'
'Thank you, but I never drink. I find that alcohol, even in the smallest quantities, alters the perspective. And I must preserve my perspective, for I am studyinc, the Bowery. I have lived in it nearly thirty years, and I am just beginning to understand its heartbeats. It is like a great river fed by a hundred alien streams. Each influx brings strange seeds on its flood, strange silt and weeds, and now and then a flower of rare promise. To construe this river requires a man who can build dykes against the overflow, who is a naturalist, a geologist, a humanitarian, a diver and a strong swimmer. I love my Bowery. It was my cradle and is my inspiration. I have published one book. The critics have been kind. I put my heart in it. I am writing another, into which I hope to put both heart and brain. Consider me your guide, gentlemen. Is there arything I can take you to see, any place to which I can conduct you?'
I was afraid to look at Rivington except with one eye.
'Thanks,' said Rivington. 'We were looking up . . . that is . . . my friend . . . confound it; it's against all precedent, you know . . . awfully obliged . . . just the same.'
'In case,' said our friend, 'you would like to meet some of our Bowery young men I would be pleased to have you visit the quarters of our East Side Kappa Delta Phi Society, only two blocks east of here.'
'Awfully sorry,' said Rivington, 'but my friend's got me on the jump to-nioht. He's a terror when he's out after local colour. Now, there's nothing I would like better than to drop in at the Kappa Delta Phi, but -- some other time!'
We said our farewells and boarded a home-bound car. We had a rabbit on upper Broadway, and then I parted with Rivington on a street corner.
'Well, anyhow,' said he, braced and recovered, 'it couldn't have happened anywhere but in little old New York.'
Which to say the least, was typical of Rivington.
If you should chance to visit the General Land Office, step into the draughtsmen's room and ask to be shown the map of Salado County. A leisurely German -- pos- sibly old Kampfer himself -- will bring it to you. It will be four feet square, on heavy drawing-cloth. The lettering and the figures will be beautifully clear and distinct. The title will be in splendid, undecipherable German text, ornamented with classic Teutonic designs -- very likely Ceres or Pomona leaning against the initial letters with cornucopias venting grapes and wieners. You must tell him that this is not the map you wish to see; that he will kindly bring you its official predecessor. He will then say, 'Ach, so!' and bring out a map half the size of the first, dim, old, tattered, and faded.
By looking carefully near its northwest corner you will presently come upon the worn contours of Chiquito River, and, maybe, if your eyes are good, discern the silent witness to this story.
The Commissioner of the Land Office was of the old style; his antique courtesy was too formal for his day. He dressed in fine black, and there was a suggestion of Roman drapery in his long coat-skirts. His collars were
