Vuyning made a pleasant reference to meteorological
conditions, thus forming a hinge upon which might be swung the door
leading from the thought repository of the other.
"In the first place," said his companion, with the air of one who
presents his credentials, "I want you to understand that I am a
crook. Out West I am known as Rowdy the Dude. Pickpocket, supper
man, second-story man, yeggman, boxman, all-round burglar, cardsharp
and slickest con man west of the Twenty-third Street ferry
landing--that's my history. That's to show I'm on the square--with
you. My name's Emerson."
"Confound old Kirk with his fish stories," said Vuyning to himself,
with silent glee as he went through his pockets for a card. "It's
pronounced 'Vining,'" he said, as he tossed it over to the other.
"And I'll be as frank with you. I'm just a kind of a loafer,
I guess, living on my daddy's money. At the club they call me
'Left-at-the-Post.' I never did a day's work in my life; and I
haven't the heart to run over a chicken when I'm motoring. It's a
pretty shabby record, altogether."
"There's one thing you can do," said Emerson, admiringly; "you can
carry duds. I've watched you several times pass on Broadway. You look
the best dressed man I've seen. And I'll bet you a gold mine I've got
$50 worth more gent's furnishings on my frame than you have. That's
what I wanted to see you about. I can't do the trick. Take a look at
me. What's wrong?"
"Stand up," said Vuyning.
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