“I believe in a man having perfect confidence in himself.” “Yes; but there is such a thing as men failing because of overconfidence.” “What! Are you going to read me a sermon?” smiled Hare. “No; but I wish you to steer clear of danger, my boy.” “If a stranger heard you talk, he would put me down for being a blooming innocent.” “Where do you expect to find your man?” asked Burt. “At Steve Shaw’s.” “Does he hang out in that crib?” “Sure.” “It seems to me, Frank, that you know where every criminal in New York hangs out.” “Ain’t that business, old man?” “Well, yes.” “You are sure Bull Blair is the man you want?” asked Frank. “Why do you ask?” “Bull claims to have become converted from his wicked ways.” Burt laughed. “If the gentleman was ever converted,” he said, “he has again fallen from grace. His pal, Tony Riley, says Blair was into the job.” “Well, I’ll have a go at him.” At ten o’clock that night, Frank Hare, attired as a “tough,” entered a basement saloon on Cherry Street. There was a platform at the rear upon which was seated a long-haired young man, who banged away at a decrepit piano. At the tables, scattered around the room, were many men and women. As Frank’s luck would have it, Blair was there, and alone. Bull was a great brute, standing all of six feet high, and being built in proportion. There was no beard on his face, and he had one eye missing. In front of the rascal stood a bottle of liquor, a small pitcher of water, and a glass. Mr. Blair seemed in very good humor. Frank seated himself opposite the brute, and called for a drink. He was promptly waited upon. “Say, young fellow,” remarked Blair, “who told you that you might sit down at this ’ere table?” “Cully, have you any objections to me sitting here?” “My name ain’t Cully.” Bull glowered at Hare. “You don’t own the table.” “Young fellow, I don’t allow any one that comes in here to give me lip!” “Where do you bury your dead?” “I’m Bull Blair.” “Glad to make your acquaintance.” “Never heard of me before, eh?” “No.” “You wouldn’t be so sassy if you did,” said Blair. “Wouldn’t I?” “No; you know that I generally thump those that give me back slack!” “Are you going to thump me?” “I ought to.” “Don’t.” “Well, I won’t. Have a drink with me, and we’ll be friends. I’m waiting for a pal of mine, and he is a deuced long time in getting here.” Hare knew he referred to Tony Riley. “I’ll drink with you.” Frank did. “Where do you hail from, young fellow?” asked Blair. “Philadelphia.” “That town’s asleep, and it ain’t ever going to wake up.” “That’s the reason I skinned out for New York,” said Frank. “On the ‘cross’?” “I’ve done a couple of stretches in Moyamensing Prison.” “What’s your lay?” “Second-story.” “Ever been in an out-and-out house-cracking job?” “Yes--once.” “I rather like your looks.” “Glad to hear it.” “Have another drink?” Frank joined the rascal in a drink. “Got any friends here?” asked Blair, after a pause. “Only one.”