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 café over here that will do. Schrumm will give us a private corner.”
Schrumm established them under a growing palm, with two seidls between them. 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, card-sharp 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
[220]
