IN HARLEM. 385 



bologna and what not, and by the time for bedding 

 down Gamey was ticketed for the spare room in the 

 flat. No one could expect a gentleman of leisure to 

 boom home in a horse car from Harlem at one in the 

 morning. It was bad morals. Gamey struck it rich 

 and did not know it. But when were we wise? 



Off and on until the snow came, the amiable card 

 kept popping up in Harlem, and then for the finish. 

 The maiden lady's brother had a trotter which he had 

 no time to drive, and as for Gamey he could do that 

 to perfection. Had he not acted as an understudy 

 for Mace, Murphy and all that ilk? Well, I should 

 remark ! Out he went one fair afternoon with the 

 lady in the robes, and when bed time came they had 

 not returned. But of that — well, do you want to hear 

 the balance? 



Go on, did you say? Well, see me step! The 

 pair cut a splurge up Seventh Avenue to McCombs' 

 Dam bridge, and tarried for a little air and refresh- 

 ments at Gabe Case's old place on Jerome Avenue. 

 Wheeling into the yard with a jingling of bells and 

 the flourish of a Wall Street blood who had made his 

 first strike, Gamey flung the reins to the head boy 

 and flounced the lady into the back parlor. "A small 

 bottle," says Gamey. Just think of it. I suppose 

 in the excitement he forgot the warm bird ; but no 

 matter. Up came the fizz, and the tears popped into 

 the maiden lady's eyes when she sipped it. They 

 sparkled like the bubbles in the glass. Reckon she 

 thought she had hooked on to an abbreviated million- 

 aire in disguise. And there was Gamey. The way 

 he put on airs, the waiter told me, was enough to 

 crack the pictures on the wall. With a cigar as long 



