the earl's daughter) in one of Mr. Blaney's plays. His trousers were
corduroy, his coat short-sleeved, with buttons in the middle of his
back. One bootleg was outside the corduroys. You looked expectantly,
though in vain, at his straw hat for ear holes, its shape inaugurating
the suspicion that it had been ravaged from a former equine possessor.
In his hand was a valise--description of it is an impossible task; a
Boston man would not have carried his lunch and law books to his office
in it. And above one ear, in his hair, was a wisp of hay--the rustic's
letter of credit, his badge of innocence, the last clinging touch of the
Garden of Eden lingering to shame the gold-brick men.

Knowingly, smilingly, the city crowds passed him by. They saw the raw
stranger stand in the gutter and stretch his neck at the tall buildings.
At this they ceased to smile, and even to look at him. It had been
done so often. A few glanced at the antique valise to see what Coney
"attraction" or brand of chewing gum he might be thus dinning into his
memory. But for the most part he was ignored. Even the newsboys looked
bored when he scampered like a circus clown out of the way of cabs and
street cars.

At Eighth Avenue stood "Bunco Harry," with his dyed mustache and shiny,
good-natured eyes. Harry was too good an artist not to be pained at the
sight of an actor overdoing his part. He edged up to the countryman, who
had stopped to open his mouth at a jewelry store window, and shook his
head.

"Too thick, pal," he said, critically--"too thick by a couple of inches.
I don't know what your lay is; but you've got the properties too thick.
That hay, now--why, they don't even allow that on Proctor's circuit any
more."