While Louie had removed to the remote regions about Fourteenth Street and Third Avenue, and was seldom seen in Chatham Square or Chinatown, he was not forgotten in those latter precincts. Jew Yetta brought up his name one evening in the Chatham Club, and spoke scornfully of him in conjunction with the opulent blonde. “That doll's makin' a farmer of Louie,” was the view of Jew Yetta. “At that,” remarked the Dropper--for this was in the days of his liberty and before he had been put away--“farmer or no farmer, it's comin' easier for him now than when he was in the navy, eatin' sow-belly out of a harness cask an' drinkin' bilge. W'at's that ship he says he's sailin' in, Nailer?” continued the Dropper. “Ain't it a tub called _Atalanta?_” “There never is a ship in the navy named _Atalanta_.” This declaration, delivered with emphasis, emanated from old Jimmy, who had a place by himself in East Side consideration. Old Jimmy was about sixty, with a hardwood-finish face and 'possum-colored hair. He had been a river pirate in the old days, and roamed the midnight waters for what he might pick up. Those were times when he troubled the police, who made him trouble in return. But one day old Jimmy salvaged a rich man's daughter, who--as though to make his fortune--had fallen overboard from a yacht, and bored her small hole in the water within a rod or two of Jimmy's skiff. Certainly, he fished her out, and did it with a boat hook. More; he sagaciously laid her willowy form across a thwart, to the end that the river water flow more easily from her rosebud mouth. Relieved of the water, the rescued beauty thanked Jimmy profusely; and, for his generous part, her millionaire father proceeded to pension his child's preserver for life. The pension was twenty-five dollars a week. Coming fresh and fresh with every Monday, Jimmy gave up his piracies and no longer haunted in the name of loot the nightly reaches of the river. Indeed, he became offensively idle and honest. “No sir,” repeated old Jimmy; “there never is a ship in our navy named _Atalanta_.” “All th' same,” retorted the dropper, “I lamps a yacht once w'at's called _Atalanta_.” “An' who says No?” demanded old Jimmy, testily. “I'm talkin' about th' United States Navy. But speakin' of Louie, it ain't no cinch he's ever in th 'navy. I'd sooner bet he's been in jail.” “An' if he was,” said Jew Yetta, “there ain't no one here who's got anything on him.” “W'at does Atalanta mean, anyway?” questioned the Dropper, who didn't like the talk of jails. “Is it a place?” “Nixie,” put in Slimmy, the erudite, ever ready to display his learning. “Atalanta's the name of a skirt, who b'longs 'way back. She's some soon as a sprinter, too, an' can run her one hundred yards in better than ten seconds. Every god on Olympus clocked this dame, an' knew what she could do.” “W'at's her story?” asked the Dropper.