"I mean," explained Peter, "do respectable people live there?"

"Shure, it's mostly boarding-houses for young men," replied the unit of
"the finest." "Ye know best what they're loike."

Reassured, Peter, sought and found board in Bleecker Street, not
comprehending that he had gone to the opposite extreme. It was a dull
season, and he had no difficulty in getting such a room as suited both
his expectations and purse. By dinner-time he had settled his simple
household gods to his satisfaction, and slightly moderated the
dreariness of the third floor front, so far as the few pictures and
other furnishings from his college rooms could modify the effect of
well-worn carpet, cheap, painted furniture, and ugly wall-paper.

Descending to his dinner, in answer to a bell more suitable for a
fire-alarm than for announcing such an ordinary occurrence as meals, he
was introduced to the four young men who were all the boarders the
summer season had left in the house. Two were retail dry-goods clerks,
another filled some function in a butter and cheese store, and the
fourth was the ticket-seller at one of the middle-grade theatres. They
all looked at Peter's clothes before looking at his face, and though the
greetings were civil enough, Peter's ready-made travelling suit, bought
in his native town, and his quiet cravat, as well as his lack of
jewelry, were proof positive to them that he did not merit any great
consideration. It was very evident that the ticket-seller, not merely
from his natural self-assertion but even more because of his enviable
acquaintance with certain actresses and his occasional privileges in the
way of free passes, was the acknowledged autocrat of the table. Under
his guidance the conversation quickly turned to theatrical and "show"