"That's all right, stranger," replied the stranger, with mollifying effectiveness. "This being a junk shop, I took it to be no more than natural to find here such tools as I have indicated." Peter rubbed his dirty hands together for a moment, gave an avaricious curl to his under lip, squinted his porcine eyes, and asked: "What do you propose doing with them tools?" Then he suddenly turned his head, with a grin of malice on his countenance, and looked through his peephole at Eli, whom he saw at that moment parlying with a forlorn creature of the feminine gender. After gazing thereat for a moment, he turned to the stranger to receive an answer to his question. "Nothing, any more than that I want them," answered the stranger, carelessly. "That is not a satisfactory answer," said Peter, again turning to his peephole, from which place he could not now unrivet his eyes. "That's my only answer," replied the stranger. "Your name is Peter Dieman, is it not?" Peter quickly unriveted his eyes, and looked up with astonishment at the peculiar tone in the stranger's voice, and the sharp look in his steel-gray eyes. "It is my name," growled Peter. "I knew it was--judging by the sign over the door," said the stranger. "Then why in the devil do you ask such a foolish question, if you knew it?" said Peter, ferociously. "Because, I wanted to make sure," said the stranger. "Say, Mr. Dieman," he now asked, "do you know Ford & Ford, who are after the contract for repaving 444th street with wood blocks?" "I do." "Do you know Councilman Biff?" "I do." "You know all the other councilmen?" "I do." "Very well. Do you know the chief clerk?" "I do." "How many can you buy?" Peter eyed him again, growled again, again peeped out of his place of espial at Eli and the forlorn creature still parlying, rubbed his hands, ran his greasy fingers through his thin setting of hair, coughed, sneezed, looked out the peephole, screwed his mouth to one side, hem-hawed, then snorted: "Who do you represent?" "Ford & Ford. Here is my passport to you," replied the stranger, handing Peter a typewritten sheet of paper signed by a member of that firm. "Why, in the devil, didn't you make yourself known in the beginning?" "Oh, I just wanted to lead you up to the question." "What do they want?" "They want the contract." "Have they got the money?" "They have." "It will cost you--" "We have the necessary amount." "--Fifty thousand to get it--money first." "When do you want the money?" "Tomorrow at eleven o'clock." The stranger arose, went out into the smoke and fog, and disappeared somewhere into the infolding channels of great business undertakings of this wonderfully prosperous city of steel and iron, where even the hearts of men are as the material that the great blast furnaces spew out, day and night, for seven days in the week, week in and week out. CHAPTER IV. IN HELL'S HALF ACRE.