When the weather became pleasant, Peter took up his “angle” visitings again, though not with quite the former regularity. Yet he rarely let a week pass without having spent a couple of evenings there. The spontaneous welcome accorded him was payment enough for the time, let alone the pleasure and enjoyment he derived from the imps. There was little that could raise Peter in their estimation, but they understood very well that he had become a man of vast importance, as it seemed to them. They had sharp little minds and ears, and had caught what the “district” said and thought of Peter. “Cheese it, the cop, Tim,” cried an urchin one evening to another, who was about to “play ball.” “Cheese it yerself. He won’t dare tech me,” shouted Tim, “so long as Mister Peter’s here.” That speech alone showed the magnitude of his position in their eyes. He was now not merely, “friends wid de perlice;” he was held in fear by that awesome body! “If I was as big as him,” said one, “I’d fire all the peelers.” “Wouldn’t that be dandy!” cried another. He won their hearts still further by something he did in midsummer. Blunkers had asked him to attend what brilliant posters throughout that part of the city announced as: HO FOR THE SEA-SHORE! SIXTH ANNUAL CLAM BAKE OF THE PATRICK N. BLUNKERS’S ASSOCIATION. When Peter asked, he found that it was to consist of a barge party (tickets fifty cents) to a bit of sand not far away from the city, with music, clams, bathing and dancing included in the price of the ticket, and unlimited beer for those who could afford that beverage. “The beer just pays for it,” Blunkers explained. “I don’t give um whisky cause some —— cusses don’t drink like as dey orter.” Then catching a look in Peter’s face, he laughed rather shamefacedly. “I forgits,” he explained. “Yer see I’m so da—” he checked himself—“I swears widout knowin’ it.” “I shall be very glad to go,” said Peter. “Dat’s bully,” said Blunkers. Then he added anxiously: “Dere’s somethin’ else, too, since yer goin’. Ginerally some feller makes a speech. Yer wouldn’t want to do it dis time, would yer?” “What do they talk about?” “Just what dey—” Blunkers swallowed a word, nearly choking in so doing, and ended “please.” “Yes. I shall be glad to talk, if you don’t mind my taking a dull subject?” “Yer just talk what yer want. We’ll listen.” After Peter had thought it over for a day, he went to Blunkers’s gin palace. “Look here,” he said. “Would it be possible to hire one more barge, and take the children free? I’ll pay for the boat, and for the extra food, if they won’t be in the way.” “I’m damned if yer do,” shouted Blunkers. “Yer don’t pay for nothinks, but der childers shall go, or my name ain’t Blunkers.” And go they did, Blunkers making no secret of the fact that it was Peter’s idea. So every child who went, nearly wild with delight, felt that the sail, the sand, the sea, and the big feed, was all owed to Peter.