sir; I fetched 'em back, I did--" A sudden and curious gleam of
pride crossed the smirk for an instant;--"I guess my gentleman
ain't agoing to _look_ no worse than the next Fifth Avenue swell he
meets--even if he ain't et no devilled kidneys for breakfast and he
don't dine on no canvas-back at Delmonico's. No, sir."

Berkley sat down on the bed's edge and laughed until he could
scarcely see the man, who observed him in patient annoyance. And
every time Berkley looked at him he went into another fit of
uncontrollable laughter, as he realised the one delightful weakness
in this thorough-paced rogue--pride in the lustre cast upon himself
by the immaculate appearance of a fashionable master. But after
reflection, it did not astonish him too much; the besetting
weakness of rogues is vanity in one form or another. This happened
to be an unusual form.

"Burgess," he said, "I don't care how you go to hell. Go with me
if you like or go it alone."

"Thank you, sir."

"You're welcome," replied Berkley gravely, and, tucking his cane up
under one arm, he went out to business, drawing on a pair of
lemon-coloured kid gloves.

Later he searched his pockets for the cigar he had denied himself
the evening before. It was not there. In fact, at that moment,
Burgess, in the boarding-house backyard, was promenading up and
down, leering at the Swedish scullion, and enjoying the last
expensive cigar that his master was likely to purchase in many a