He saw the struggling mass of dogs, beggars,
fakirs, slave-drivers and veiled women in carts without horses, the
sun blazing brightly among the bazaars, the piles of rubbish from
ruined temples in the street--and then a lady, passing, jabbed the
ferrule of a parasol in his side and brought him back to Broadway.
Five minutes of his stroll brought him to a certain corner, where a
number of silent, pale-faced men are accustomed to stand, immovably,
for hours, busy with the file blades of their penknives, with their
hat brims on a level with their eyelids. Wall Street speculators,
driving home in their carriages, love to point out these men to their
visiting friends and tell them of this rather famous lounging-place
of the "crooks." On Wall Street the speculators never use the file
blades of their knives.
Vuyning was delighted when one of this company stepped forth and
addressed him as he was passing. He was hungry for something out of
the ordinary, and to be accosted by this smooth-faced, keen-eyed,
low-voiced, athletic member of the under world, with his grim,
yet pleasant smile, had all the taste of an adventure to the
convention-weary Vuyning.
"Excuse me, friend," said he. "Could I have a few minutes' talk with
you--on the level?"
"Certainly," said Vuyning, with a smile. "But, suppose we step aside
to a quieter place. There is a divan--a cafe over here that will do.
Schrumm will give us a private corner."
Schrumm established them under a growing palm, with two seidls
between them.
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