“Th' tickets is fifty cents,” returned Whitey, “but that's got nothin' to do wit' it. A guy t'rows down say a ten-spot at th' box-office, like that”--and Whitey made a motion with his hand, which was royal in its generous openness. “'Gimme a pasteboard!' he says; an' that ends it; he ain't lookin' for no change back. Every sport does th' same. Some t'rows in five, some ten, some guy even changes in a twenty if he's pulled off a trick an' is feelin' flush. It's all right; there's nothin' in bein' a piker. Ike himself sells th' tickets; an' th' more you planks down th' more he knows you like him.” It was becoming plain. A gentleman of gang prominence gives a ball--a racket--and coins, so to speak, his disrepute. He of sternest and most bloody past takes in the most money. To discover one's status in Gangland, one has but to give a racket.. The measure of the box-receipts will be the dread measure of one's reputation. “One t'ing youse can say of Ike,” observed Slimmy, wearing the while a look of virtue, “he never made no money off a woman.” “Never in all his life took a dollar off a doll!” added Whitey, corroboratively. Ike the Blood reappearing at this juncture, it was deemed best to cease--audibly, at least--all consideration of his merits. He might have regarded discussion, so personal to himself, with disfavor. Laughing lightly, he took his old place at the table, and beckoned the waiter. Compared with what had been its former cloudy expression, his face wore a look of relief. “Say, I don't mind tellin' youse guys,” he said at last, breaking into an uneasy laugh, “but th' fact is, I skinned round into Sixt' Avenoo to a fortune teller--a dandy, she is--one that t'rows a fit, or goes into a trance, or some such t'ing.” “A fortune teller!” said Slimmy, as though he'd never heard the word before. “It's on account of a dream. In all th' years”--Ike spoke as might one who had put a century behind him--“in all th' years I've been knockin' about, an' I've had me troubles, I never gets a notch on me gun, see? Not that I went lookin' for any; not that I'm lookin' for any now. But last night I had a dream:--I dreams I croaks a guy. Mebby it's somet'in' I'd been eatin'; mebby it's because of me havin' a pretty hot argument th' mornin' before; but anyhow it bothers me--that dream does. You see”--this to my friend--“I'm figgerin' on openin' a house over in Twenty-fift' Street, an' these West Side ducks is all for givin' me th' frozen face. They say I oughter stick down on th' East Side, where I belongs, an' not come chasin' up here, cuttin' in on their graft. Anyhow, I dreams I puts th' foist notch on me gun-------” “And so you consult a fortune teller,” laughed my friend, who was not superstitious, but practical. “Wait till I tells you. As I says, I blows in on that trance party. I don't wise her up about any dream, but comes t'rough wit' th' little old one buck she charges, an' says: 'There you be! Now roll your game for th' limit!'”