The clothes which George N. offered for my transfiguration with the exception of being made for a man one inch taller than my own stature they didn't look very awkward upon me and to escape curiosity he took me through the alleys of a narrow passage into the 124th Street, where an elderly German kept a barber shop and when he was through cleaning that over burdened head of mine, he was almost exhausted, and liable to a fine, if any policeman happened to see him working on Sunday after 12 o'clock. The barber closed the door of his shop allowing time for us to just step out and we hastened our way back to the store, now walking on 7th Avenue. Jack, whose name already is mentioned here, is one of the leading flower decorators in New York City. He could make a cross of flowers look like a picture, and he could make a bouquet for the most particular bride, he could decorate a little chapel around the corner and make it look as artistic as he could decorate a rich mansion in the most exclusive Riverside Drive. Jack made as much money as any of his high grade fellow traders in Harlem, and he had no home responsibilities, his widow mother being what we might call well-to-do, for she owned considerable real estate in that vicinity, yet, Jack, every Monday morning had to obtain a loan for his carfare, and more than half a dozen young ladies all around Manhattan were particularly interested in Jack's welfare. This is Sunday and one o'clock in the afternoon, and Jack should be enjoying his holiday, and there were already two of his female chums waiting for him on the sidewalk. Yet Jack had always some more time to spare to accommodate his employer George N., who as now entered the store he gave the synthematical pass-word "that's all," which in the language of the employer and employees it means "The boys may now go home." But Jack, as he took a glimpse on me, in all his Irish calibre he almost screamed: Help! St. Patrick, what a metamorphosis is this? Is that you, Father? You look now to me more like a butterfly out of a caterpillar than anything in Ireland. Say, girls, calling his friends from the outside, come in you girls, I take the honor to introduce you to the Father ..., but, my soul, I am ashamed to call you Father, so fashionable a gentleman as you look now. You shall not call me Father, said I, as long as you see me dressed like a gentleman. I shall not, Jack said, and with his girls took his departure, while George N., who interpreted all this merriment, took a fresh white rose and put it in my buttonhole. Let us go for lunch, said he and I followed gladly for I felt it was a timely call.