"All right," says I; "but if I was you I'd trail down some pavin' job before the paper inner soles wore clean through." Course, how soon he hit the bread line wa'n't any funeral of mine exactly, and he was a hopeless case anyway; but somehow I got to likin' Tutwater more or less, and wishin' there was some plan of applyin' all that hot air of his in useful ways. I know of lots of stiffs with not half his brains that makes enough to ride around in taxis and order custom made shirts. He was gettin' seedier every week, though, and I had it straight from the agent that it was only a question of a few days before that brass plate would have to come down. And then, one noon as we was chinnin' here in the front office, in blows a portly, red faced, stary eyed old party who seems kind of dazed and uncertain as to where he's goin'. He looks first at Tutwater, and then at me. "Same to you and many of 'em," says I. "What'll it be?" "McCabe was the name," says he; "Professor McCabe, I think. I had it written down somewhere; but----" "Never mind," says I. "This is the shop and I'm the right party. What then?" "Perhaps you don't know me?" says he, explorin' his vest pockets sort of aimless with his fingers. "That's another good guess," says I; "but there's lots of time ahead of us." "I--I am--well, never mind the name," says he, brushin' one hand over his eyes. "I--I've mislaid it." "Eh?" says I. "It's no matter," says he, beginnin' to ramble on again. "But I own a great deal of property in the city, and my head has been troubling me lately, and I heard you could help me. I'll pay you well, you know. I--I'll give you the Brooklyn Bridge." "Wha-a-at's that?" I gasps. "Say, couldn't you make it Madison Square Garden? I could get rent out of that." "Well, if you prefer," says he, without crackin' a smile. "And this is Mr. Tutwater," says I. "He ought to be in on this. What'll yours be, Tutty?" Say, for a minute or so I couldn't make out whether the old party was really off his chump or what. He's a well dressed, prosperous lookin' gent, a good deal on the retired broker type, and I didn't know but he might be some friend of Pyramid Gordon's who'd strayed in here to hand me a josh before signin' on for a course of lessons. Next thing we knew, though, he slumps down in my desk chair, leans back comf'table, sighs sort of contented, smiles a batty, foolish smile at us, and then closes his eyes. Another second and he's snorin' away as peaceful as you please. "Well, say!" says I to Tutwater. "What do you think of that, now? Does he take this for a free lodgin' house, or Central Park? Looks like it was up to me to ring for the wagon." "Don't," says Tutwater. "The police handle these cases so stupidly. His mind has been affected, possibly from some shock, and he is physically exhausted."