Not very long ago some one invented the assertion that there were

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Not very long ago some one invented the assertion that there were

only "Four Hundred" people in New York City who were really worth

noticing. But a wiser man has arisen--the census taker--and his

larger estimate of human interest has been preferred in marking out

the field of these little stories of the "Four Million."



























Tobin and me, the two of us, went down to Coney one day, for there was

four dollars between us, and Tobin had need of distractions. For there

was Katie Mahorner, his sweetheart, of County Sligo, lost since she

started for America three months before with two hundred dollars, her

own savings, and one hundred dollars from the sale of Tobin's inherited

estate, a fine cottage and pig on the Bog Shannaugh. And since the

letter that Tobin got saying that she had started to come to him not a

bit of news had he heard or seen of Katie Mahorner. Tobin advertised in

the papers, but nothing could be found of the colleen.

So, to Coney me and Tobin went, thinking that a turn at the chutes and

the smell of the popcorn might raise the heart in his bosom. But Tobin

was a hardheaded man, and the sadness stuck in his skin. He ground his

teeth at the crying balloons; he cursed the moving pictures; and, though

he would drink whenever asked, he scorned Punch and Judy, and was for

licking the tintype men as they came.

So I gets him down a side way on a board walk where the attractions were

some less violent. At a little six by eight stall Tobin halts, with a

more human look in his eye.
"'Tis here," says he, "I will be diverted. I'll have the palm of me hand

investigated by the wonderful palmist of the Nile, and see if what is to

be will be."
Tobin was a believer in signs and the unnatural in nature. He possessed

illegal convictions in his mind along the subjects of black cats, lucky

numbers, and the weather predictions in the papers.
We went into the enchanted chicken coop, which was fixed mysterious with

red cloth and pictures of hands with lines crossing 'em like a railroad

centre. The sign over the door says it is Madame Zozo the Egyptian

Palmist. There was a fat woman inside in a red jumper with pothooks and

beasties embroidered upon it. Tobin gives her ten cents and extends one

of his hands. She lifts Tobin's hand, which is own brother to the hoof

of a drayhorse, and examines it to see whether 'tis a stone in the frog

or a cast shoe he has come for.

"Man," says this Madame Zozo, "the line of your fate shows--"
"Tis not me foot at all," says Tobin, interrupting. "Sure, 'tis no

beauty, but ye hold the palm of me hand."

"The line shows," says the Madame, "that ye've not arrived at your

time of life without bad luck. And there's more to come. The mount

of Venus--or is that a stone bruise?--shows that ye've been in love.

There's been trouble in your life on account of your sweetheart."

"'Tis Katie Mahorner she has references with," whispers Tobin to me in a

loud voice to one side.

"I see," says the palmist, "a great deal of sorrow and tribulation with

one whom ye cannot forget. I see the lines of designation point to the

letter K and the letter M in her name."
"Whist!" says Tobin to me, "do ye hear that?"
"Look out," goes on the palmist, "for a dark man and a light woman; for

they'll both bring ye trouble. Ye'll make a voyage upon the water very

soon, and have a financial loss. I see one line that brings good luck.

There's a man coming into your life who will fetch ye good fortune.

Ye'll know him when ye see him by his crooked nose."
"Is his name set down?" asks Tobin. "'Twill be convenient in the way of

greeting when he backs up to dump off the good luck."

"His name," says the palmist, thoughtful looking, "is not spelled out by

the lines, but they indicate 'tis a long one, and the letter 'o' should

be in it. There's no more to tell. Good-evening. Don't block up the

"'Tis wonderful how she knows," says Tobin as we walk to the pier.

As we squeezed through the gates a nigger man sticks his lighted segar

against Tobin's ear, and there is trouble. Tobin hammers his neck, and

the women squeal, and by presence of mind I drag the little man out of

the way before the police comes. Tobin is always in an ugly mood when

enjoying himself.
On the boat going back, when the man calls "Who wants the good-looking

waiter?" Tobin tried to plead guilty, feeling the desire to blow the

foam off a crock of suds, but when he felt in his pocket he found

himself discharged for lack of evidence. Somebody had disturbed his

change during the commotion. So we sat, dry, upon the stools, listening

to the Dagoes fiddling on deck. If anything, Tobin was lower in spirits

and less congenial with his misfortunes than when we started.
On a seat against the railing was a young woman dressed suitable for red

automobiles, with hair the colour of an unsmoked meerschaum. In passing

by, Tobin kicks her foot without intentions, and, being polite to ladies

when in drink, he tries to give his hat a twist while apologising. But

he knocks it off, and the wind carries it overboard.
Tobin came back and sat down, and I began to look out for him, for the

man's adversities were becoming frequent. He was apt, when pushed so

close by hard luck, to kick the best dressed man he could see, and try

to take command of the boat.

Presently Tobin grabs my arm and says, excited: "Jawn," says he, "do ye

know what we're doing? We're taking a voyage upon the water."

"There now," says I; "subdue yeself. The boat'll land in ten minutes

"Look," says he, "at the light lady upon the bench. And have ye

forgotten the nigger man that burned me ear? And isn't the money I had

gone--a dollar sixty-five it was?"

I thought he was no more than summing up his catastrophes so as to get

violent with good excuse, as men will do, and I tried to make him

understand such things was trifles.
"Listen," says Tobin. "Ye've no ear for the gift of prophecy or the

miracles of the inspired. What did the palmist lady tell ye out of me

hand? 'Tis coming true before 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.


"'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 that ye would hold a spelling bee upon the street

corner, will ye name some reasonable excuse for being at large?"
"By the two signs," answers Tobin, trying to explain, "which ye display

according to the reading of the Egyptian palmist from the sole of me

hand, ye've been nominated to offset with good luck the lines of trouble

leading to the nigger man and the blonde lady with her feet crossed in

the boat, besides the financial loss of a dollar sixty-five, all so far

fulfilled according to Hoyle."

The man stopped smoking and looked at me.
"Have ye any amendments," he asks, "to offer to that statement, or are

ye one too? I thought by the looks of ye ye might have him in charge."

"None," says I to him, "except that as one horseshoe resembles another

so are ye the picture of good luck as predicted by the hand of me

friend. If not, then the lines of Danny's hand may have been crossed,

I don't know."

"There's two of ye," says the man with the nose, looking up and down

for the sight of a policeman. "I've enjoyed your company immense.

With that he shoves his segar in his mouth and moves across the street,

stepping fast. But Tobin sticks close to one side of him and me at the

"What!" says he, stopping on the opposite sidewalk and pushing back his

hat; "do ye follow me? I tell ye," he says, very loud, "I'm proud to

have met ye. But it is my desire to be rid of ye. I am off to me home."
"Do," says Tobin, leaning against his sleeve. "Do be off to your home.

And I will sit at the door of it till ye come out in the morning. For

the dependence is upon ye to obviate the curse of the nigger man and the

blonde lady and the financial loss of the one-sixty-five."

"'Tis a strange hallucination," says the man, turning to me as a more

reasonable lunatic. "Hadn't ye better get him home?"

"Listen, man," says I to him. "Daniel Tobin is as sensible as he ever

was. Maybe he is a bit deranged on account of having drink enough to

disturb but not enough to settle his wits, but he is no more than

following out the legitimate path of his superstitions and predicaments,

which I will explain to you." With that I relates the facts about

the palmist lady and how the finger of suspicion points to him as an

instrument of good fortune. "Now, understand," I concludes, "my position

in this riot. I am the friend of me friend Tobin, according to me

interpretations. 'Tis easy to be a friend to the prosperous, for it

pays; 'tis not hard to be a friend to the poor, for ye get puffed up by

gratitude and have your picture printed standing in front of a tenement

with a scuttle of coal and an orphan in each hand. But it strains the

art of friendship to be true friend to a born fool. And that's what I'm

doing," says I, "for, in my opinion, there's no fortune to be read from

the palm of me hand that wasn't printed there with the handle of a pick.

And, though ye've got the crookedest nose in New York City, I misdoubt

that all the fortune-tellers doing business could milk good luck from

ye. But the lines of Danny's hand pointed to ye fair, and I'll assist

him to experiment with ye until he's convinced ye're dry."
After that the man turns, sudden, to laughing. He leans against a corner

and laughs considerable. Then he claps me and Tobin on the backs of us

and takes us by an arm apiece.
"'Tis my mistake," says he. "How could I be expecting anything so fine

and wonderful to be turning the corner upon me? I came near being found

unworthy. Hard by," says he, "is a cafe, snug and suitable for the

entertainment of idiosyncrasies. Let us go there and have drink while we

discuss the unavailability of the categorical."
So saying, he marched me and Tobin to the back room of a saloon, and

ordered the drinks, and laid the money on the table. He looks at me and

Tobin like brothers of his, and we have the segars.
"Ye must know," says the man of destiny, "that me walk in life is

one that is called the literary. I wander abroad be night seeking

idiosyncrasies in the masses and truth in the heavens above. When ye

came upon me I was in contemplation of the elevated road in conjunction

with the chief luminary of night. The rapid transit is poetry and art:

the moon but a tedious, dry body, moving by rote. But these are private

opinions, for, in the business of literature, the conditions are

reversed. 'Tis me hope to be writing a book to explain the strange

things I have discovered in life."
"Ye will put me in a book," says Tobin, disgusted; "will ye put me in a

"I will not," says the man, "for the covers will not hold ye. Not yet.

The best I can do is to enjoy ye meself, for the time is not ripe for

destroying the limitations of print. Ye would look fantastic in type.

All alone by meself must I drink this cup of joy. But, I thank ye, boys;

I am truly grateful."

"The talk of ye," says Tobin, blowing through his moustache and pounding

the table with his fist, "is an eyesore to me patience. There was good

luck promised out of the crook of your nose, but ye bear fruit like the

bang of a drum. Ye resemble, with your noise of books, the wind blowing

through a crack. Sure, now, I would be thinking the palm of me hand lied

but for the coming true of the nigger man and the blonde lady and--"

"Whist!" says the long man; "would ye be led astray by physiognomy? Me

nose will do what it can within bounds. Let us have these glasses filled

again, for 'tis good to keep idiosyncrasies well moistened, they being

subject to deterioration in a dry moral atmosphere."

So, the man of literature makes good, to my notion, for he pays,

cheerful, for everything, the capital of me and Tobin being exhausted by

prediction. But Tobin is sore, and drinks quiet, with the red showing in

his eye.
By and by we moved out, for 'twas eleven o'clock, and stands a bit upon

the sidewalk. And then the man says he must be going home, and invites

me and Tobin to walk that way. We arrives on a side street two blocks

away where there is a stretch of brick houses with high stoops and iron

fences. The man stops at one of them and looks up at the top windows

which he finds dark.
"'Tis me humble dwelling," says he, "and I begin to perceive by the

signs that me wife has retired to slumber. Therefore I will venture a

bit in the way of hospitality. 'Tis me wish that ye enter the basement

room, where we dine, and partake of a reasonable refreshment. There will

be some fine cold fowl and cheese and a bottle or two of ale. Ye will be

welcome to enter and eat, for I am indebted to ye for diversions."

The appetite and conscience of me and Tobin was congenial to the

proposition, though 'twas sticking hard in Danny's superstitions to

think that a few drinks and a cold lunch should represent the good

fortune promised by the palm of his hand.

"Step down the steps," says the man with the crooked nose, "and I will

enter by the door above and let ye in. I will ask the new girl we have

in the kitchen," says he, "to make ye a pot of coffee to drink before ye

go. 'Tis fine coffee Katie Mahorner makes for a green girl just landed

three months. Step in," says the man, "and I'll send her down to ye."

One dollar and eighty-seven cents. That was all. And sixty cents of it

was in pennies. Pennies saved one and two at a time by bulldozing the

grocer and the vegetable man and the butcher until one's cheeks burned

with the silent imputation of parsimony that such close dealing implied.

Three times Della counted it. One dollar and eighty-seven cents. And the

next day would be Christmas.
There was clearly nothing to do but flop down on the shabby little

couch and howl. So Della did it. Which instigates the moral reflection

that life is made up of sobs, sniffles, and smiles, with sniffles


While the mistress of the home is gradually subsiding from the first

stage to the second, take a look at the home. A furnished flat at $8 per

week. It did not exactly beggar description, but it certainly had that

word on the lookout for the mendicancy squad.

In the vestibule below was a letter-box into which no letter would go,

and an electric button from which no mortal finger could coax a ring.

Also appertaining thereunto was a card bearing the name "Mr. James

Dillingham Young." The "Dillingham" had been flung to the breeze

during a former period of prosperity when its possessor was being paid

$30 per week. Now, when the income was shrunk to $20, the letters of

"Dillingham" looked blurred, as though they were thinking seriously

of contracting to a modest and unassuming D. But whenever Mr. James

Dillingham Young came home and reached his flat above he was called

"Jim" and greatly hugged by Mrs. James Dillingham Young, already

introduced to you as Della. Which is all very good.
Della finished her cry and attended to her cheeks with the powder rag.

She stood by the window and looked out dully at a grey cat walking a

grey fence in a grey backyard. Tomorrow would be Christmas Day, and she

had only $1.87 with which to buy Jim a present. She had been saving

every penny she could for months, with this result. Twenty dollars a

week doesn't go far. Expenses had been greater than she had calculated.

They always are. Only $1.87 to buy a present for Jim. Her Jim. Many a

happy hour she had spent planning for something nice for him. Something

fine and rare and sterling--something just a little bit near to being

worthy of the honour of being owned by Jim.

There was a pier-glass between the windows of the room. Perhaps you have

seen a pier-glass in an $8 flat. A very thin and very agile person may,

by observing his reflection in a rapid sequence of longitudinal strips,

obtain a fairly accurate conception of his looks. Della, being slender,

had mastered the art.
Suddenly she whirled from the window and stood before the glass. Her

eyes were shining brilliantly, but her face had lost its colour within

twenty seconds. Rapidly she pulled down her hair and let it fall to its

full length.

Now, there were two possessions of the James Dillingham Youngs in which

they both took a mighty pride. One was Jim's gold watch that had been

his father's and his grandfather's. The other was Della's hair. Had the

Queen of Sheba lived in the flat across the airshaft, Della would have

let her hair hang out the window some day to dry just to depreciate Her

Majesty's jewels and gifts. Had King Solomon been the janitor, with all

his treasures piled up in the basement, Jim would have pulled out his

watch every time he passed, just to see him pluck at his beard from

So now Della's beautiful hair fell about her, rippling and shining like

a cascade of brown waters. It reached below her knee and made itself

almost a garment for her. And then she did it up again nervously and

quickly. Once she faltered for a minute and stood still while a tear or

two splashed on the worn red carpet.
On went her old brown jacket; on went her old brown hat. With a whirl of

skirts and with the brilliant sparkle still in her eyes, she fluttered

out the door and down the stairs to the street.
Where she stopped the sign read: "Mme. Sofronie. Hair Goods of All

Kinds." One flight up Della ran, and collected herself, panting. Madame,

large, too white, chilly, hardly looked the "Sofronie."
"Will you buy my hair?" asked Della.
"I buy hair," said Madame. "Take yer hat off and let's have a sight at

the looks of it."

Down rippled the brown cascade. "Twenty dollars," said Madame, lifting

the mass with a practised hand.

"Give it to me quick," said Della.
Oh, and the next two hours tripped by on rosy wings. Forget the hashed

metaphor. She was ransacking the stores for Jim's present.

She found it at last. It surely had been made for Jim and no one else.

There was no other like it in any of the stores, and she had turned all

of them inside out. It was a platinum fob chain simple and chaste in

design, properly proclaiming its value by substance alone and not by

meretricious ornamentation--as all good things should do. It was even

worthy of The Watch. As soon as she saw it she that it must be Jim's.

It was like him. Quietness and value--the description applied to both.

Twenty-one dollars they took from her for it, and she hurried home with

the 87 cents. With that chain on his watch Jim might be properly anxious

about the time in any company. Grand as the watch was, he sometimes

looked at it on the sly on account of the old leather strap that he used

in place of a chain.

When Della reached home her intoxication gave way a little to prudence

and reason. She got out her curling irons and lighted the gas and went

to work repairing the ravages made by generosity added to love. Which is

always a tremendous task, dear friends--a mammoth task.

Within forty minutes her head was covered with tiny, close-lying curls

that made her look wonderfully like a truant schoolboy. She looked at

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