322 THE LUKE LIGHTWOOD LEGACY. 



"It is poetical you are this morning, Luke," came 

 a gruff voice at my shoulder. "Where on the green 

 earth did you ever learn such a foine tale?" 



"New York police, nothing else," said I ; but when 

 I turned a view of the first speaker surprised me. 

 Perched on a park bench, with his hands on the of- 

 ficer's shoulder, was a little old man who would not 

 weigh over ninety or one hundred pounds, wearing a 

 high hat that had been ironed many a time, a high 

 collar with an old black stock, such as you read about 

 in novels running back to the Revolutionary period, 

 a long frock coat, a little the worse for wear, a pair of 

 light pants creased to a razor's edge, buff-colored 

 gloves and patent leather shoes with pointed toes. 

 His hair was white and clipped so close that you could 

 see the skin of the scalp through the stubble, while an 

 unusually heavy moustache for a man of his physique 

 was waxed and twisted into points fine enough to go 

 through the proverbial eye of a needle. This all came 

 at a glance as I passed on to the ferry. 



The following day, while making the same trip, I 

 saw him again, and upon my return, the same officer 

 being on the beat, I asked him who he was. He told 

 me that the little old gentleman was known as Luke 

 Lightwood, although he had reason to believe that it 

 was not his only name, and that the boys about the 

 Battery had favored him with the title, "Dot and 

 Carry One," from the manner in which he banged his 

 cane on the pavement and dragged a game leg after 

 him. The officer also told me that Luke had been a 

 jockey in his early days, and now picked up a living 

 by assisting in the gambling rooms up town. All of 

 this was imparted sub rosa at the time, being one of 

 the official secrets which are handed about from day 



