"That is sufficient. Here is the sum I promised you," and the stranger laid two broad gold pieces on the table: "we must now part. Should I ever need you, we will meet again. Good night." And the stranger rose, and left the refectory, Bloodhound turning his head over his shoulder as he watched his retreating figure with dumb amazement. "Cool! I call it cool!" he soliloquised; "Waiter, see here; another glass of brandy. Yet this is good gold; has the right ring, hey? Judas Iscariot! Somehow or 'nother, everything I touch turns to gold. Wonder what the chap in the blue handkercher has agin the white nigger and his sister? Who keers? At twelve to-night Godlike will have the gal, and Harry and I will have the nigger. Ju-das Iscariot!" Here let us leave the Bloodhound for awhile, to his solemn meditations and his glass of brandy. CHAPTER II. THE CANAL STREET SHIRT STORE. "Do you call them stitches? S-a-y? How d'ye expect a man to git a livin' if he's robbed in that way? Do you call that a shirt--s-a-y?" "Indeed I did my best--" "Did your best? I should like to know what you take me for? D'ye think I'm a fool? Did not I give you the stuff for five shirts, and fust of all, I exacted a pledge of five dollars from you, to be forfeited if you spoilt the stuff--" "And you know I was to receive two shillings for each shirt. I'll thank you to pay me my money, and restore my five dollars and let me go--" "Not a copper. This shirt is spoilt. And if those you have in your arms are no better, why they are spoilt too--" "They're made as well as the one you hold--no better." "Then I can't sell 'em for old rags. Just give 'em to me, and clear out--" "At least give me back my five dollars--" "Not a copper. Had you finished these shirts in the right style, they'd a-sold for fifteen dollars. As it is, the money is forfeited,--I mean the five dollars which you left with me as a pledge. I can't employ you any more. Just give me the other four shirts, and clear out." The storekeeper and the poor girl were separated by a counter, on which was placed a showy case. She was dressed in a faded calico gown, and a shawl as worn and faded, hung about her shoulders. She wore a straw bonnet, although it was a night in mid-winter; and beneath her poverty-stricken dress, her shoes were visible: old and worn into shreds they scarcely clung to her feet. Her entire appearance indicated extreme poverty. The storekeeper, who stood beneath the gas-light, was a well preserved and portly man of forty years, or more, with a bald head, a wide mouth and a snub nose. Rings glistered on his fat fingers. His black velvet vest was crossed by a gold chain. His spotless shirt bosom was decorated by a flashy breastpin. He spoke sharp and quick, and with a proper sense of his dignity as the Proprietor of the "ONLY UNIVERSAL SHIRT STORE, No. ----, Canal St., New York."