The Lizard's grin broadened.

"I ain't so sure about that," he said. "I know your kind. You're a
regular gent. There is some honest jobs that you would just as soon have
as the smallpox, and maybe this is one of them."

"What is it?" asked Jimmy. "Don't keep me guessing any longer."

"You know Feinheimer's Cabaret."

"The basement joint on Wells Street?" asked Jimmy. "Sure I know it."

"Well that's where I got you a job," said the Lizard.

"What doing?" asked Jimmy.

"Waiter," was the reply.

"It isn't any worse than standing behind a counter, selling stockings to
women," said Jimmy.

"It ain't such a bad job," admitted the Lizard "if a guy ain't too
swelled up. Some of 'em make a pretty good thing out of it, what with
their tips and short changing--Oh, there are lots of little ways to
get yours at Feinheimer's."

"I see," said Jimmy; "but don't he pay any wages?"

"Oh, sure," replied the Lizard; "you get the union scale."