II.


Yes, empty-handed, Tom Dorgan. And I can't honestly say I didn't
have the chance, but--if my hands are empty my head is full.

Listen.

There's a girl I know with short brown hair, a turned-up nose and
gray eyes, rather far apart. You know her, too? Well, she can't
help that.

But this girl--oh, she makes such a pretty boy! And the ladies at
the hotel over in Brooklyn, they just dote on her when she's not
only a boy but a bell-boy. Her name may be Nancy when she's in
petticoats, but in trousers she's Nathaniel--in short, Nat.

Now, Nat, in blue and buttons, with his nails kept better than
most boys', with his curly hair parted in the middle, and with a
gentle tang to his voice that makes him almost girlish--who would
suspect Nat of having a stolen pass-key in his pocket and a
pretty fair knowledge of the contents of almost every top
bureau-drawer in the hotel?

Not Mrs. Sarah Kingdon, a widow just arrived from Philadelphia,
and desperately gone on young Mr. George Moriway, also fresh from
Philadelphia, and desperately gone on Mrs. Kingdon's money.