"Oh, I'm wise. We want no horse-play on this corner; no joyful college
stunts," roughly.

Fitzgerald saw that frankness must be his card, so he played it. "Look
here, do you see those two gentlemen in the window there?"

"The club?"

"Yes. I made a wager that I could sell one of these statues in half an
hour. If you force me off I'll lose a dinner."

"Well, I'll make a bargain with you. You can stand here for half an
hour; but if you open your mouth to a woman, I'll run you in. No
fooling; I'm talking straight. I'm going to see what your game is."

"I agree."

So the policeman turned to his crossing and reassumed his authority
over traffic, all the while never losing sight of the impromptu vender.

Many pedestrians paused. To see a well-dressed young man hawking
plaster Venuses was no ordinary sight. They knew that some play was
going on, but, with that inveterate suspicion of the city pedestrian,
none of them stopped to speak or buy. Some newsboys gathered round and
offered a few suggestions. Fitzgerald gave them back in kind. No
woman spoke, but there wasn't one who passed that didn't look at him
with more than ordinary curiosity. He was enjoying it. It reminded
him of the man who offered sovereigns for shillings, and never
exchanged a coin.