He was friendly to me because I had used his name in a story; he remembered me now. I produced the tin-type photograph. He inspected it under the nearest electric light.
"Yep," he said, "I seen that feller only a few minutes back--half an hour maybe--only he's lifted his mustache."
"Shaved his moustache--yes?"
"That's what I said," as he handed back the tin-type. "Got a story?" he inquired the same instant. "Anything big doing?"
"Which way did he go?"
"Up-town," said the policeman, jerking his thumb in the direction north. "Up 8th Avenoo. And he was travellin' with a partner, a big feller, same size as yerself, I guess." He moved off to show he had no more to say. Any story that might result would be out of his beat. There was nothing in it for him. His interest vanished. I hurried on to the corner of 8th Avenue, the edge of a bad neighbourhood leading down through the negro quarter towards the haunts of the river-front, and there I paused again for a second or two.
I was still in 23rd Street, but I now turned up the Avenue. It was practically deserted, the street cars empty, few people on the pavements. The side-streets crossed it at right angles, poorly lit, running right and left into a world of shadows, but at almost every corner stood a brilliant saloon whose windows and glass doors poured out great shafts of light. Sometimes there were four saloons, one at each corner, and the blaze was dazzling. I passed 24th, 25th, 26th and 27th streets. There were little flurries of dry snow; I saw no one, nothing but empty silent sidewalks swept by the icy wind.
At 28th Street there were four saloons, one at each corner, and the blaze of light had a warm, enticing look. Through the blurred windows of the one nearest to me, the heads of the packed crowd inside as they lined up to the bar were just visible, and while I stood a moment, shivering in the icy wind, the comforting idea of a hot
whisky came to me. For the wind cut like glass and neither
