like a good t'ing even w'en it ain't comin' my way. You'se a dandy,
dat's right, an' I t'ink we'd do well in de business togedder. Put
me nex' to yer game,"

"Game? The bill of fare tells you all about that. Here's quail,
squab, duck--see? That's the only game I'm interested in. Go on, and
order."

"S' 'elp me Gawd if you ain't a peach."

For half an hour Mr. Burglar ate ravenously, Quentin watching him
through half-closed, amused eyes. He had had a dull, monotonous
week, and this was the novelty that lifted life out of the torpidity
into which it had fallen.

The host at this queer feast was at that time little more than
twenty-five years of age, a year out of Yale, and just back from a
second tour of South America. He was an orphan, coming into a big
fortune with his majority, and he had satiated an old desire to
travel in lands not visited by all the world. Now he was back in New
York to look after the investments his guardian had made, and he
found them so ridiculously satisfactory that they cast a shadow of
dullness across his mind, always hungry for activity.

"Have you a place to sleep?" he asked, at length.

"I live in Jersey City, but I suppose I can find a cheap lodgin'
house down by d' river. Trouble is, I ain't got d' price."

"Then come back home with me. You may sleep in Jackson's room.