Kenyon drew a stool toward him and sat down, first throwing his top-coat and crush-hat aside. The man regarded his immaculateness with frowning wonder. “How long has it been, Brady,” inquired the caller, “since you saw my old acquaintance the ‘Steamhammer’?” Brady stared for a moment, then a grin gradually stole over his face. “Say,” said he. “I’ve got you now. You are that young guy from West Point.” He arose and shook hands with Kenyon. “I’m glad to see you. You were once the handy boy, all right,” admiringly. “You had a shot in either hand that would have made you champion of America if you had been in that line.” “Thanks.” “Just wait a minute,” continued the Gypsy, with a wink. “I’ve got a friend here that’s sort of backward-like, when people call.” He went to a closet at one side, pulled back the catch and threw open the door. “All right, Slim,” said he. “You can come out. It’s a friend of mine.” A tall, angular, huge-boned fellow stepped silently out of the closet. He had a hawk-like face and a pair of small, shifty green eyes. “I’m glad to know the gent,” said he. He sat coolly down upon a trunk and began to roll a cigarette. His fingers were supple and discolored. “You see,” by way of explanation, “when a guy is in demand, why it’s him for the deep, dense shade. Do you get me? There is no sense in lingering around in places where you might get sunburned.” “I think I understand,” said Kenyon. The Gypsy waved the subject away, as being without special interest. He seemed in a reminiscent mood. “The night that you came into the ‘Paradise Garden’ is one that will always stick to me,” said he, with a chuckle. “Ah, that was a time when I could rope up the yellowbacks in bundles thick enough to keep back the cops. But New York’s changed since then. It’s full of Chinks, Yiddishers, Guinnies, and people with money.” “I’ve heard of that old place of yours, often,” spoke the shady one, lighting his cigarette. “But I never saw it.” “You see,” said the Gypsy to Kenyon. “Big Slim here is from St. Louis. He only struck New York a few years back. They’d never mugged him here, and he was looking for a new field.” “It should have been ’Frisco or old K. C. for me,” complained Big Slim. “The guns have gone all over this island and there’s not a thing on it, except in Wall Street, that’s not chained short.” “Well, if you’d drifted in in the old days you’d have found it different. A guy could accumulate a pull then, if he had the change,” stated Brady. “And he could go as far as he liked.” He paused a moment, then resumed: