"Tony the Barber's" place was thoroughly antiseptic. Dirt was a stranger there; germs found life within its portals a hazardous business--what with the vitrified walls, the glass shelves, and enameled plumbing. Even the towels were handled with tongs; the nickel-plated steamer in which they were heated to an unbearable temperature seemed to puff its cheeks with a consciousness of painful and almost offensive cleanliness. The men who worked here had hard, black eyes, but their hands were soft and white. The rows of mugs that stood inside the glass cupboards were inscribed with the names of prominent actors, managers, and booking-agents of the Rialto--for this was a famous place in its way. Tony, engaged in administering a shampoo, nodded at Jim, and from force of habit murmured politely: "Next!" Then, with a meaning glance, he indicated a door at the rear of the shop. In the third chair Jim recognized Max Melcher, although the face of the sporting-man was swathed in steaming cloths. Jim passed on and into a rear room, where he found three men seated at a felt-covered card-table. They were well dressed, quiet persons--one a bookmaker whom the racing laws had reduced from affluence to comparative penury; another, a tall, pallid youth with bulging eyes. The third occupant of the room was an ex-lightweight champion of the ring, Young Sullivan, by name. His trim waist and powerful shoulders betokened his trade. His jaw was firm, and a cauliflower ear overhung his collar like a fungus. Jim drew up a chair and chatted idly until the book-maker yawned, rose, and went out. Then Jim and the others relaxed. "Gee, he's a sticker!" exclaimed the pugilist. "I thought he'd broke his back." "Max is getting his map greased," the pop-eyed youth explained. Taking a pasteboard box from his pocket, he removed a heroin tablet therefrom and crushed it; the powder he held in the indentation between the base of his closed thumb and first finger, known as "the thimble"; then, with a quick inhalation, he drew the drug up his nostrils. "Have an angel?" he inquired, offering the box. Jim accepted, but Young Sullivan declined. "What's the news?" the latter inquired. "I've seen Goldy," replied Jim. "Mother and I will call on Merkle at three. I finally got her to consent." Sullivan shook his head. "He MIGHT fall, but I doubt it. How does your sister feel?" "That's the trouble. She's square, and we can't use her," Jim explained. "Some doll!" admiringly commented Armistead, the third member of the group. Armistead had once been famed in vaudeville for dancing, but the drug habit had destroyed his endurance, and with it his career. "She's a perfect thirty-six, all right. She could rip a lot of coin loose if she tried." At this moment Mr. Melcher, freshly perfumed and talcumed, entered the room. His white hair was arranged with scrupulous nicety; his pink face, as unwrinkled as his immaculate attire, was beaming with good humor.