The elder of the two men was known to those who contributed to the orphan asylum that he conducted in Dreamland as the Rev. William Cassock, but the workers of the town called him “Soapy Sam.” His companion’s face adorns the largest and most interesting gallery of portraits that the city contains, and is labelled in the catalogue and explanatory text-book pertaining to the gallery, “Crooked Charlie, the man of many grafts.” The two had, indeed, known hard times since the close of the summer and were now in no mood to let any stranger go unscathed. A sudden gleam of intelligence came into “Crooked Charlie’s” face, and at the same moment a bright light gilded the tips of the Rev. William Cassock’s iron-gray whiskers. “Gimme another o’ them toddies and don’t forgit the nutmeg,” cried the stranger, and then the two smart people rose in their places and made a mysterious signal to the bartender. As the sucker by the stove slowly sipped his second drink, the red-hot iron in front of him changed into the glowing base of the old wood-burner that has warmed two generations of loafers in the little manufacturing town of Bilkville Centre, Conn. He could hear the voice of old Hiram Goodsell inviting him to a game of “setback” in the back room of the tavern, and then some invisible force bore him up to the big hall over the schoolhouse, where the firemen’s ball was in progress, and he found himself balancing to corners with Mirandy Tucker, her that was a Larrabee. “Cross over! Cross back! Balance all and swing your partners!” chanted old Bill Cady, and the sucker went swinging down the room and out into the cold field and across the snow to the railroad train which whirled him on to New York. He was filled with glad anticipations: he would go to see Lydia Thompson, he would plunge into the heart of the gay and beautiful Tenderloin, where the corks pop merrily all night long and the ivory chips rattle, and the music of the banjo and piano fills the air. Yes, here was New York at last, and here was the kindly old gentleman, known affectionately as Grand Central Pete, who has directed the urban revels of many a lonely stranger. The old man welcomes him and explains that the city pays him to look after unsuspecting visitors and keep them from being robbed before they get to Forty-first Street. Arm in arm, the two bend their steps toward what is believed in the provinces to be the merry quarter of the town, stopping only at a saloon to enable the sucker to change a counterfeit twenty-dollar bill for an obliging gentleman who hopes he will enjoy his stay in the city.