Across our two dishes of spaghetti, in a corner of Provenzano's
restaurant, Jeff Peters was explaining to me the three kinds of graft.

Every winter Jeff comes to New York to eat spaghetti, to watch the
shipping in East River from the depths of his chinchilla overcoat,
and to lay in a supply of Chicago-made clothing at one of the Fulton
street stores. During the other three seasons he may be found further
west--his range is from Spokane to Tampa. In his profession he
takes a pride which he supports and defends with a serious and
unique philosophy of ethics. His profession is no new one. He is an
incorporated, uncapitalized, unlimited asylum for the reception of
the restless and unwise dollars of his fellowmen.

In the wilderness of stone in which Jeff seeks his annual lonely
holiday he is glad to palaver of his many adventures, as a boy will
whistle after sundown in a wood. Wherefore, I mark on my calendar the
time of his coming, and open a question of privilege at Provenzano's
concerning the little wine-stained table in the corner between the
rakish rubber plant and the framed palazzio della something on the
wall.

"There are two kinds of graft," said Jeff, "that ought to be wiped out
by law. I mean Wall Street speculation, and burglary."

"Nearly everybody will agree with you as to one of them," said I, with
a laugh.

"Well, burglary ought to be wiped out, too," said Jeff; and I wondered