The Flaw in the Sapphire

Copyright, 1909, by
THE METROPOLITAN PRESS

Registered at Stationers’ Hall, London
(All Rights Reserved)

Printed in the United States of America

Press  of  Wm.  G.  Hewitt
24-26 Vandewater St.
New York

Augustine E. McBee

THE FLAW IN THE SAPPHIRE

For these reasons, until the nature of his business was discovered, he was regarded with interest by that class which is disposed to estimate the contents of a book by the character of the binding, or thinks it can measure a man’s ability by the size of his hat.

On nearer acquaintance, he was relegated to the dubious distinction of an oddity to whom you would be pleased to introduce your friends if you had only a satisfactory account of his antecedents.

He was cheerful, startling, ready and adroit.

Until betrayed by his brief but effectual familiarities, it was a curious experience to remark the approach of this singular being and wonder at the appraising suggestion in his speculative glance.

Presently you decided that it was the intention of this young man to address you, and, unconsciously, you accorded him the opportunity, only to be scandalized the moment afterward by the query, altogether incongruous in such a promising aspect:

“Any old clothes to-day?”

And you passed on, chagrined and wondering.

For a number of years, while his auditors paused in an attempt to disentangle the Semite from the Celt, there was scarcely a day in which he had not subjected himself to the more or less pronounced hazards of rebuff incident to his invariable query, and there were few citizens of the sterner sex whom he had not thus addressed.

Apparently no consideration restrained him.

None was too dignified, none sufficiently austere to escape his solicitation; and while, as a rule, he waited until the object of his regard came to a standstill, he had been known to approach diagonally, and, at the point of incidence, presenting his query, pass on with a glance of impassive impersonality when it was evident that his overtures were futile or worse.

When successful in his forays, he would convey the results of his efforts to his father, who, after getting the garments thus secured in a condition of fictitious newness, displayed them in front of his establishment, marked with prices which, as he explained to those unwary enough to venture within the radius of his personality, brought him as near to nervous prostration as was possible for the parent of such inconsequent offspring.

However, no matter what the rewards of such industry, it must not be imagined that its disabilities did not insist upon due recognition and ugly ravel, and that such shred and fibre did not obtrude their unwelcome appeals for repair upon their central figure.

Shrewd, intelligent, persistent, he soon discovered that the very qualities which made him successful in his calling rendered him obnoxious to those who were unable to harmonize his promise with his condition.

However, like the majority of his countrymen, outside of those who constituted the Manhattan police force and provided the country with justices of the peace, this young man was a philosopher.

He could always provide a silver lining for a cloud as long as it was plausible to do so, and when he had exhausted his genial resources, he looked at facts squarely.

On this basis he decided, finally, that his was a case of “bricks without straw,” enthusiasm minus its basis, an unhappy conclusion which was emphasized by his patient attempts to soften his angularities with the advantages provided by a night school.

Unfortunately, a business man, with an eye to the bizarre, to whom Dennis had presented some of his characteristic enterprises, had put the young Irishman in the way of securing a biography of the Hebrew premier, whom he provided with such an absurd travesty of likeness, and the “ole clo’ merchant” was so impressed by the resolution and dexterity of the celebrated statesman, that he became, from that moment, the prey of a consuming ambition whose direction he could not determine.

He grew positive daily, however, that, in view of these stimulating aspirations, he could no longer pursue his embarrassing avocation.

On the basis, therefore, that the greater the pent the more pronounced the explosion, the young merchant developed a dangerous readiness to embrace the first opportunity that presented herself in the hope that the caress would be returned.

Presently, the determination to exchange his present humiliations for future uncertainties advanced him to the point where he informed his father of his decision, and the latter immediately succumbed to a collapse which was Hebraic in its despair and entirely Celtic in its manifestation.

When this irate parent realized, at last, that this invaluable arm of his business could not be diverted from its purpose, with cruel celerity he cut off his son from all further consideration and forbade him the premises.

With the previous week’s salary in his pocket, which, fortunately, had been undisturbed, Dennis Muldoon, on the day succeeding this unhappy interview with his sire, set out for New York City with his few belongings condensed, with campaigning foresight, in a satchel whose size and appearance would scarcely inspire the confidence man to claim previous acquaintance with its owner in order to investigate its contents later.

In this manner protected from the insinuating blandishments of the “buncoes,” and guided by his native shrewdness, Dennis finally found accommodation for his meager impedimenta in an unassuming lodging-house called The Stag.

This establishment reflected, in a curious way, the demands of its patrons.

Almost the entire first floor was occupied by the glittering details of a seductive barroom, through which one was compelled to pass, challenged on every side by alluring labels, before reaching the restaurant immediately in the rear.

Above, the floors were divided into numerous sleeping-rooms barely large enough to accommodate a bed, washstand and one chair—a sordid ensemble, unrelieved by any other wall decoration than the inevitable announcement: “This way to the fire escape.”

By a singular coincidence which would have aroused a lively emotion in the moralist, a Bible occupied a small shelf directly under the instructions quoted above.

Dennis, however, was too weary to recognize the grim association, and shortly after his arrival retired for the night to recuperate his energies for the uncertainties of the morrow.

Awakening at dawn with a sincere hope that his dreams of a succession of disasters were not prophetic, and, despite the appeals of the glitter and the labels in the bar, breakfasting with his customary abstemiousness, Dennis issued from The Stag with a determination to make the effort of his life to secure employment.

He had no definite plans other than a profound determination to resist the invitations of Baxter Street, a thoroughfare congested from end to end with innumerable shops devoted to the species of merchandizing from which he had so recently escaped.

Here his talents would have procured for him ready recognition, a condition which deepened his determination to avoid all possible contact with these solicitous sons of Shem.

Beyond a singular desire to enter a large publishing house, Dennis had no idea as to the direction of his efforts.

Aside from the fact that books held an unaccountable fascination for him, he could not explain this predilection, for their influence over him was in the aggregate.

He loved to wander, with aimless preoccupation, among closely-packed shelves, and in pursuance of this indirection was familiar with the interior of every library in the city of Philadelphia.

He appeared to have too much respect for the books to touch them, and was sufficiently in awe of their contents not to attempt to read them.

He was impressed by the volume of things, and had, unsuspected by himself, the capacity of the bibliophile to detect and enjoy the subtle aroma which emanates from leaves and binding.

In harmony, therefore, with the resolute quality which had secured to him what success he had enjoyed in his abandoned business, Dennis decided to exhaust the pleasing possibilities presented by this elevated industry before applying elsewhere.

The éclat of possible authorship did not influence him, despite the encouragement afforded him in the surprising efforts of his imagination displayed in achievements such as the following, with which he embellished the front of his father’s establishment:

This Suit
was
$50
and cheap at that
I’ll let it go for
$20

and so on indefinitely.

Urged, then, by the advantages which lubricate the lines of least resistance, and stimulated by that clarion phrase in his unfailing campaign document, his copy of Beaconsfield: “I have begun many things many times and have finally succeeded,” Dennis presented himself, about ten o’clock, at one of the well-known publishing houses.

With all the alarm which affects the fair débutante at a court presentation, he beheld the confusing labyrinth of counters, department aisles and shelves, which combine in such a depressing suggestion of intellectual plethora and transient futility in this famous edifice.

Advised by his sensations, Dennis was quite ready to assure himself that he had entered at the wrong portal, and, returning to the street, he discovered that the building concluded upon a rearway congested with a disorderly array of drays, cases and porters.

Encouraged by the assurance of these more familiar surroundings, Dennis cast an anxious glance about him to discover one more in authority than the others.

His quest was given direction by a familiar accent.

“Wake up, ye lazy divils! It’s dhramin’ ye are this marnin’.”

Guided by the sound, Dennis beheld a naturally cheerful Irishman occupied with the double task of assuming an austere demeanor, and quickening, with brisk orders, the movements of the porters under his direction.

His present difficulties mastered, this vivacious master of ceremonies turned to look, with an inquiring glance, upon Dennis, who had presented himself to the attention of the former with the unmistakable appeal of the candidate in his demeanor.

“I want a job,” said Dennis simply.

“Phwat?” inquired the foreman sharply, staring at the mosaic of physiognomy and accent embodied in Dennis.

“I want a job,” repeated Dennis. “I nade wurk.”

There was no mistaking the peculiar burr in the utterance of the last two words, but the foreman continued to regard the speaker with suspicious amazement.

“Phwat are ye, annyway?” he said with guarded brusqueness.

“A poor man, sir; I nade wurk.”

“Oi don’t mane that,” with less severity at this frank acknowledgment; “but where do yez hail from—Limerick or Jerusalem?”

At this pointed question, which promptly reminded Dennis of the singular contradiction he presented, he replied, with a genuine Celtic adroitness that had an immediate effect upon his hearer:

“Nayther; I got off at the midway junction.”

“Ha, ha!” laughed the foreman, as he appreciated this clever explanation of the singular compromise presented by Dennis. “Shure, that’s not bad. By the mug ye wear, I wud advise ye to go to Baxther Street, but by the sound av ye, Oi rickommind th’ Broadway squad. Wurrk, is it? Why don’t ye presint that face at th’ front? I hear they’re shy on editors.”

“Shure!” said Dennis, who believed that he was progressing; “but the only things I iver wrote were store signs.”

“Ah, ha!” replied the foreman, “so it’s handy with th’ brush ye are.”

“Yes,” answered Dennis.

“Wait a bit,” said the foreman, and pointing to a marking-outfit he directed Dennis to display his name and address upon a smooth pine board which he provided for that purpose:

Dennis Muldoon,
The Stag Hotel,
Vesey St.,
N.Y.

“Ah, ha!” cried the foreman as he contrasted the name with the incongruous face of the young man before him, “ye don’t have to play it on a flute, annyway; there’s nothin’ Sheeny about that.” Then, directing his attention to the character of the work itself, he added: “That’s not bad at all, at all. See here,” he said abruptly, as he picked up the board which Dennis had decorated and fastened it to the warehouse wall with a nail, “Oi’ll kape that for riferince. Oh, Oi mane it,” he said with gruff assurance, as he noted the disappointment which shadowed the expressive face before him; “an’ mebbe ye won’t have to wait so long, nayther.”

“I hope not,” said Dennis frankly.

“Well, ye see,” said the foreman, “the prisint incoombent has been mixin’ too much red wid his paint, an’ it don’t wurrk.”

“You mean he drinks?” asked Dennis with humorous inquiry.

“Oi do,” replied the foreman; “an’ now that we have inthroduced th’ subject, excuse a personal quistion: Do ye wet yure whistle in business hours?”

“No,” answered Dennis promptly, “nor out of them. Father attended to that part of the business.”

“Well,” replied the foreman, “Oi can’t talk longer wid ye this marnin’. Come ’round be th’ ind of the wake,” and dismissing Dennis with a nod he withdrew into the warehouse.

The main feature of discouragement which presented itself to Dennis as he left this locality to ponder over its possibilities, was that the end of the week was five days off.

This was serious.

His rupture with Muldoon, senior, had left him but poorly provided with linen and lucre; and a campaign of assault upon the barricades of prejudice and suspicion, which was involved in the anxious solicitude of the man seeking employment, demanded every possible accessory of personal appearance and a reasonably equipped commissariat.

Anxious, therefore, to subject his meager resources to the least strain possible, Dennis at last succeeded in securing, in one of the more pretentious stores on Baxter Street, a contrivance for the relief of penury and threadbare gentility known at that time by the name of “dickey.”

This convenience consisted in a series of three shirt bosoms made of paper to resemble the luxury of linen.

When the surface first exposed showed symptoms of soil or wear, its removal revealed a fresh bosom directly under.

Adjusted to his waistcoat, it was almost impossible to detect the agreeable sham, which, under favorable auspices, could be made to last for a week.

Thus equipped, Dennis proceeded to his hotel, where, after according the cheerful salutation of the industrious barkeeper the acknowledgment of a lively Irish nod, in which there was both fellowship and refusal, he proceeded to the rear, to banquet upon whatever offered the most for his money.

During the two days succeeding, Dennis, true to the apprehensive calculation natural to the unemployed, did not propose to rest upon the assurances of his Irish friend in the publishing house.

Anything untoward might occur.

In fact, he was familiar with this seamy side of Providence.

He had been so often misled by promises that it was only his wholesome Celtic faith and prompt capacity to rebound which kept him from becoming entirely blasé.

His experience, however, left him alert. So he applied industriously at various establishments for employment, and received his first lessons in the courteous duplicity which ostentatiously files the application for future reference, and the cruel kindness of frank rebuff.

On the morning of the third day of this futile foray, Dennis noticed that the exposed bosom of his dickey was not altogether presentable.

It appeared to have registered the record of his applications and failures, and, as such, was not a good campaign document, so to speak.

Having progressed in his simple toilet up to the point of embellishment, he proceeded to tear away the soiled surface, and in doing so discovered not only the clean bosom beneath, but that the rear of the one just detached was covered with a block of minute print.

Drawing the solitary chair close to the window, he read by the light of early dawn the following extraordinary compilation.

He was thoroughly despised by all who knew him, a sentiment which he returned with vicious interest, and never neglected an opportunity of lodging some sneering shaft where it would cause the most irritation.

His character was so much in harmony with these generalizations that he had been described as dividing his laughter into chuckles—if the strident rasp which he indulged could be called by that name—in order that it might last the longer; and that he grinned in grudging instalments.

His obvious possession was an entire row of brick houses, in the most insignificant of which he dwelt.

Over this sparse domicile a spinster sister presided, who reflected, on compulsion, in the manner of a sickly moon, the attenuity and shrivel of her brother.

A nephew of Raikes’ completed the circuit.

This young man intruded upon this strange household an aspect so curiously at variance with that of his rickety elders that he suggested to the fanciful the grim idea of having exhausted the contents of the larder and compelled the other two to shift for themselves.

He was, in the eyes of the disapproving Raikes, offensively plump; an example of incredible expenditure applied to personal gratification and gluttonous indulgence.

The miser behaved as if he appeared to consider it a mark of studied disrespect to be compelled to contrast his gaunt leanness with the young man’s embonpoint, and was propitiated only by the reflection that he contributed in no way to his nephew’s physical disproportion, since the latter was able to be at charges for his own welfare from resources derived from steady outside employment.

Adjoining the house occupied by Raikes, and connected with it by a doorway let into the wall, was a series of three dwellings used as a boarding-establishment by a widow who had seen better days and was tireless in alluding to them.

These buildings had been remodeled to communicate with each other, a continuity that concluded with the Raikes apartments.

For some reason this miserable man preferred to occupy the portion just indicated with no other tenants than his gaunt sister and the robust Robert.

This arrangement was all the more curious from the fact that Raikes made no attempt to dispose of, in fact, strangely resented any suggestion of letting, the lower floor of his end of the row.

That one of his avaricious disposition could thus forego such a prospect of advantage was the occasion of much speculation.

If Robert understood he gave no hint; and if the boarders on the other side of the partition indulged in curious comment they refrained from doing so in his presence.

The suggestion had been made that Raikes secreted something about that portion of the premises he occupied, but since none had the courage to investigate such a possibility, the problems it created were permitted to pass unsolved or serve to tantalize the imagination.

Regularly, at meal-time, the door leading from the Raikes apartment would open, and the mean figure of the miser, after presenting itself for one hesitating, suspicious moment, would slip silently through and subside into a near-by chair at one of the tables.

Directly after, the spinster would filter through with the mien of an apologetic phantom, and Raikes at once established the basis of indulgence by tentative nibbles of this and that, which were almost Barmecidian in their meagerness, and the sister, under his sordid supervision, followed his miserable example.

With singular perversity, in the midst of reasonable abundance, he forbore to accept the full measure of his privileges.

The discipline of denial was essential to the austere economies he practiced in all other directions, and his sister, rather than submit to the hardness of his rebukes, acquiesced with dismal resignation.

Robert was able to endure the table behavior of his uncle no more than the others, and so occupied a seat in the dining-room surrounded by more agreeable conditions.

If this course was intended as a diplomatic frankness to indicate to Raikes that his nephew did not expect a legacy to follow the demise of that austere relative, no one could determine.

The young man, however, continued to sit in whatever portion of the apartment he pleased and enjoy himself as much as the handicap of his relationship would permit.

On this basis, as if to manifest in himself the law of compensation, Robert grew vicariously robust, and accepted, with cynical good humor, the irritation of his uncle over his adipose.

Raikes and his sister had the table at which they sat entirely to themselves.

Only on the infrequent occasions of congestion had others been known to occupy seats at the same board.

It was more than hungry human nature, as embodied in most of the inmates, could stand to witness this exasperating refusal to accept a reasonable measure of what was set before them; a disability to which the scarcely concealed scowls of the exacting miser added the chill finishing touch.

One morning, however, a new boarder arrived.

Accommodations could not be found for him at the other tables, and, as was the custom of the widow under such circumstances, he was intruded upon the society of this morbid duet, after the manner of his predecessors.

If the usual rebellion matured at such association on the part of this recent guest, the landlady expected to be assisted by one of those vacancies which occur with such incalculable irregularity, yet reasonable certainty, in establishments of this character.

At this a prompt transfer would be effected.

This, however, was an unusual boarder.

If his presence was obnoxious to Raikes, the latter refused to realize it; if the miser had his peculiarities, the newcomer did not see them.

He ate his meals in silence, with an abstemiousness that, unknown to himself, recommended him as cordially as any consideration might to his shriveled table companion; made friendly overtures, disguised in perfunctory courtesies, of passing the bread or the butter when either was beyond the nervous reach of the eccentric Raikes, and ventured an impassive suggestion or two as to the probable conduct of the weather.

In appearance the newcomer was startling.

His complexion was a berry-brown; his expression, aside from his eyes, was singularly composed.

These were uncommonly black and piercing, and peeped from receding sockets through heavy eyebrows, which hung like an ambush over their dart and gleam.

His nose was a decisive aquiline, beneath which his lips, at once firm and sensitive, pressed together changelessly.

His figure was tall and spare and usually clad in black, a habit which emphasized his already picturesque countenance.

There was an indescribable air about him which suggested event, transpired or about to transpire, which introduced a sort of eerie distinction to the commonplace surroundings in which he found himself, and invited many a glance of curious speculation in his direction.

All this was not without its effect upon Raikes, and it was remarked, with the astonishment the occasion justified, that the miser, in the ensuing days, emerged from his customary austerity to the extent of reciprocal amenities in the passage of bread and salt.

However, this was but the beginning.

Raikes discovered himself, at last, responding, with a degree of chill urbanity, to the advances of the stranger, and ere the week had concluded had assumed the initiative in conversation on more than one occasion.

By this time one of the inevitable vacancies had occurred at another table, and the widow, as usual, offered to translate this latest guest to the unoccupied seat.

The latter, however, for some strange reason, indicated a desire to remain in his present surroundings, and when this disposition was understood by Raikes, the conquest of the miser was complete.

As if to indorse the perverse aspect of inflexible things, it seemed, now that Raikes had ventured ever so little beyond his taciturn defenses, he was encouraged to further boldness.

The stranger exerted a fascination which, in others, Raikes would have considered dangerous and which he would have made his customary instinctive preparations to combat.

He could not recall a similar instance in all the years of his recent experience when he was constrained to recognize, nay, surrender to, a diffusive impulse such as this curious stranger awakened in his mind.

In yielding to its insinuations, even to the extent already recorded, he was agreeably conscious of a sort of guilty abandon which, at times, stupefies the moral qualities ere delivering them into the hands of a welcome invader.

For some time Robert, with the others, had enjoyed the entertainment offered by this transformation of Satyr to Faun, and the inversion advanced to still further degrees their curious regard of the “Sepoy,” a picturesque description bestowed upon him by the blasé boarders.

Consequently, one evening, when, at the conclusion of the dinner, the “Sepoy,” in response to the invitation of Raikes, was seen to disappear with the latter through the doorway which led to his apartments, Robert’s interest in the spectacle changed to genuine alarm, until a moment’s reflection upon his uncle’s well-known ability to take care of himself reassured him.

Intruding the door between themselves and all further speculation, the strangely-assorted pair proceeded along a dimly-illumed hallway to a room in which Raikes usually secluded himself.

As the Sepoy advanced, he could see that, with the exception of two sleeping-chambers, revealed by their open doors, the apartment in which he found himself was the only one where any kind of accommodation could be found, as the balance of the house offered unmistakable evidences of being unoccupied.

“Be seated, sir,” croaked Raikes, with a voice strangely suggestive of a raven attempting the modulations of some canary it had swallowed. “I do not smoke myself, and, therefore, cannot provide you with that sort of entertainment; still, I have no objection to you enjoying yourself in that way if,” with a cynical shrug of the shoulders by way of apology, “you have come prepared.”

Accepting this frank inhospitality in the spirit of its announcement, the stranger, smiling with his curious eyes, produced two cigars, one of which he offered to Raikes, and which was consistently and promptly refused.

“I can’t afford it,” expostulated the latter. “I never indulge myself even in temptation; the nearest I will approach to dissipation will be, with your permission, to enjoy the aroma. I do not propose to rebuke myself for that.”

“As you please,” returned the other as he replaced the weed in his pocket. “It is my one indulgence; in other respects I challenge any man to be more abstemious.”

“I have had none,” returned Raikes with a rasping lack of emotion, “for the last ten years. It is too late to begin to cultivate a disability now.”

“You are wrong,” replied the Sepoy. “One’s attitude cannot be rigid at all points; that is bad management. The finest tragedy I ever witnessed was emphasized by the trivialities of the king’s jester.

“However,” he added, as if in support of his theory, “I can, at least, trouble you for a match.”

While Raikes busied himself in an effort to show the hospitality of the service indicated, the Sepoy’s busy, furtive eyes glanced here and there about the room with quick, inquiring glances.

At one end a bedstead stood, which an antiquarian would have accepted gladly as collateral for a loan.

Near-by a wardrobe, equally remote if more decrepit, leaned against the wall to maintain the balance jeopardized by a missing foot.

One chair, in addition to those occupied by Raikes and his companion, appeared to extend its worn arms with a weary insistence and dusty disapproval of their emptiness.

A table, large enough to accommodate a student’s lamp, several account books and a blotting-pad, completed this uninviting galaxy.

To the walls, however, the Sepoy directed his closest scrutiny.

With an incredibly rapid glance he surveyed every possible inch of space, turning his head cautiously to enable his eyes to penetrate into the more distant portions.

Presently, after an amount of rummaging altogether disproportionate to the nature of his quest, Raikes succeeded in finding a lucifer, which flared with a reluctance characteristic of the surroundings.

The Sepoy, availing himself of its blaze, deposited the remainder of the stick, with elaborate carefulness, upon the table, as if urged by the thought that his companion might convert it to further uses.

As Raikes resumed his chair, the Sepoy, recalling his glances from their mysterious foray, directed them, with curious obliqueness, upon his companion.

In no instance that Raikes could recall had the Sepoy looked upon him directly save in fleeting flashes.

At such moments Raikes was conscious of a strange tremor, a vanishing fascination, that he vainly sought to duplicate by attracting the other’s attention, in order to analyze its peculiar influence.

“May I ask,” he ventured after a few inhalations of his vicarious smoke, “may I ask the nature of your business?”

“Surely,” replied the other. “I am a collector.”

“Of what?” inquired Raikes, dissatisfied with the ambiguity of the answer.

“Sapphires,” said the Sepoy.

“Ah!” cried Raikes.

“Yes,” continued the other, regarding the kindling glance of the avaricious Raikes with a quick, penetrating look that was not without its effect upon the latter; “yes, and I have had many beautiful specimens in my time.”

“But where is your establishment?” asked Raikes.

“Wherever I chance to be,” was the reply.

“Still,” ventured Raikes, astonished at this curious rejoinder, “you have some safe depository for such valuables.”

“Doubtless,” replied the other drily; “but I have a few in my room now, and, by the way, they are pretty fair specimens.”

“Ah!” cried Raikes. “May I see them?”

“Why not?” assented the Sepoy. “In the meantime,” he continued, as he inserted his hand in his waistcoat pocket, “what do you think of this?” and describing a glittering semicircle in the air with some brilliant object he held in his grasp, he deposited upon the table a sapphire of such extraordinary size and beauty, that Raikes, able as he was to realize the great value of this gleaming condensation, stared stupidly at it for a moment, and then, with a cry of almost gibbering avarice, caught the gem in his trembling hands and burglarized it with his greedy eyes.

As Raikes, oblivious of all else, continued to gaze upon the brilliant with repulsive fascination, a peculiar change transformed the face of the Sepoy.

He directed upon the unconscious countenance of his companion a glance of terrible intensity, moving his hands the while in a weird, sinuous rhythm, until presently, satisfied with the vacant expression which had replaced the eager look of the moment before in the eyes of the tremulous Raikes, the Sepoy began, with an indescribably easy, somnolent modulation, the following strange recital:

(To be continued on Dickey No. 2.)

“Thunder and lightning!” cried Dennis as he reached the exasperating announcement in italics at the bottom of the dickey back:

“Continued on Dickey No. 2.”

“What th’ div—now, what do you think of that? An’ it’s me crazy to hear what that meerschaum-colored divil was a-goin’ to say. ‘Dickey No. 2.’ Why, that’s the one I have to wear to-day, an’ to think the story’s on the back of it.”

Truly was Dennis harassed.

He had been in many a pickle before, but never in one quite so exasperating.

Tantalized, in the first place, by the uncertainty surrounding his prospective employment, he was now confronted by a predicament which threatened to jeopardize a vital adjunct to his personal appearance.

A native curiosity, to which this outrageous tale appealed so strenuously, prompted him to detach bosom No. 2 regardless.

An equally characteristic thrift warned him against such an inconsiderate procedure.

Finally his good judgment prevailed, and with desperate haste he adjusted the remaining bosoms of the dickey to his waistcoat, plunged into his coat, clapped his hat on his head and rushed from the room.

All that day Dennis continued to receive his instalments of that bitter instruction in the ways of heedless employers and suspicious subordinates which, eased by a native good humor, conclude in the philosopher, or, unrelieved by this genial mollient, develop the cynic.

By evening he was compelled to admit, as he retraced his steps to The Stag, that he had not advanced in any way.

As he was about to pass under one of the dripping extensions of the elevated, a great splotch of grease detached itself from the ironwork and struck, with unerring precision, directly in the center of dickey No. 2.

“Ah!” exclaimed Dennis as he realized the nature of his mishap, “that settles it; I’ll know what the Sepoy said to-night.” A remark which proved conclusively that the philosophical element was still uppermost in the mind of this young Irishman.

After a brief exchange of courtesies with his countryman behind the bar, and a dinner so modest in the rear room as to arouse the suspicion and encourage the displeasure of the waiter, Dennis hastened up the stairway, divested himself of his upper garments, ripped off dickey bosom No. 2, and began.