First I steers him across Mulberry Bend and into a Pell-st. chop suey joint that wouldn't be runnin' at all if it wa'n't for the Sagadahoc and Elmira folks the two dollar tourin' cars bring down. With all the Chinks gabblin' around outside, though, and the funny, letterin' on the bill of fare, I thought that would stun him some. He just looked around casual, though, and laid into his suey and rice like it was a plate of ham-and, not even askin' if he couldn't buy a pair of chopsticks as a souvenir. "There's a bunch of desperate characters," says I, pointin' to a table where a gang of Park Row compositors was blowin' themselves to a platter of chow-ghi-sumen. "Yes?" says he. "There's Chuck Connors, and Mock Duck, and Bill the Brute, and One Eyed Mike!" I whispers. "I'm glad I saw them," says Bentley. "We'll take a sneak before the murderin' begins," say I. "Maybe you'll read about how many was killed, in the mornin' papers." "I'll look for it," says he. Say, it was discouragin'. We takes the L up to 23rd and goes across and up the east side of Madison Square. "There," says I, pointin' out the Manhattan Club, that's about as lively as the Subtreasury on a Sunday, "that's Canfield's place. We'd go in and see 'em buck the tiger, only I got a tip that Bingham's goin' to pull it to-night. That youngster in the straw hat just goin' in is Reggie." "Well, well!" says Bentley. Oh, I sure did show Bentley a lot of sights that evenin', includin' a wild tour through the Tenderloin--in a Broadway car. We winds up at a roof garden, and, just to give Bentley an extra shiver, I asks the waiter if we wa'n't sittin' somewhere near the table that Harry and Evelyn had the night he was overcome by emotional insanity. "You're at the very one, sir," he says. Considerin' we was ten blocks away, he was a knowin' waiter. "This identical table; hear that, Bentley?" says I. "You don't say!" says he. "Let's have a bracer," says I. "Ever drink a soda cocktail, Bentley?" He said he hadn't. "Then bring us two, real stiff ones," says I. You know how they're made--a dash of bitters, a spoonful of bicarbonate, and a bottle of club soda, all stirred up in a tall glass, almost as intoxicatin' as buttermilk. "Don't make your head dizzy, does it?" says I. "A little," says Bentley; "but then, I'm not used to mixed drinks. We take root beer generally, when we're out on a tear." "You cow boys must be a fierce lot when you're loose," says I. Bentley grinned, kind of reminiscent. "We do raise the Old Harry once in awhile," says he. "The last time we went up to Dallas I drank three different kinds of soda water, and we guyed a tamale peddler so that a policeman had to speak to us." Say! what do you think of that? Wouldn't that freeze your blood?