He set Betsy on the bar and addressed her loudly and humorously, seasoning his speech with exaggerated compliments and endearments, as one entertaining his lady friend. The loafers and bibbers around caught the farce of it, and roared. The bartender gave Fuzzy a drink. Oh, many of us carry rag-dolls. “One for the lady?” suggested Fuzzy impudently, and tucked another contribution to Art beneath his waistcoat. He began to see possibilities in Betsy. His first-night had been a success. Visions of a vaudeville circuit about town dawned upon him. In a group near the stove sat “Pigeon” McCarthy, Black Riley, and “One-ear” Mike, well and unfavorably known in the tough shoestring district that blackened the left bank of the river. They passed a newspaper back and forth among themselves. The item that each solid and blunt forefinger pointed out was an advertisement headed “One Hundred Dollars Reward.” To earn it one must return the rag-doll lost, strayed, or stolen from the Millionaire’s mansion. It seemed that grief still ravaged, unchecked, in the bosom of the too faithful Child. Flip, the terrier, capered and shook his absurd whisker before her, powerless to distract. She wailed for her Betsy in the faces of walking, talking, mama-ing, and eye-closing French Mabelles and Violettes. The advertisement was a last resort. Black Riley came from behind the stove and approached Fuzzy in his one-sided parabolic way. The Christmas mummer, flushed with success, had tucked Betsy under his arm, and was about to depart to the filling of impromptu dates elsewhere. “Say, ‘Bo,” said Black Riley to him, “where did you cop out dat doll?” “This doll?” asked Fuzzy, touching Betsy with his forefinger to be sure that she was the one referred to. Why, this doll was presented to me by the Emperor of Beloochistan. I have seven hundred others in my country home in Newport. This doll—” “Cheese the funny business,” said Riley. “You swiped it or picked it up at de house on de hill where—but never mind dat. You want to take fifty cents for de rags, and take it quick. Me brother’s kid at home might be wantin’ to play wid it. Hey—what?” He produced the coin. Fuzzy laughed a gurgling, insolent, alcoholic laugh in his face. Go to the office of Sarah Bernhardt’s manager and propose to him that she be released from a night’s performance to entertain the Tackytown Lyceum and Literary Coterie. You will hear the duplicate of Fuzzy’s laugh.