"T'ank you, mum," mumbled the Flopper, as the money dropped into his hat. "God reward you, sir.... Ah, miss, may you never know a tear.... 'Twas heaven brought you 'ere to-night, lady." They passed, following the guide. The Flopper scooped the money into a pile in his hat, began to tuck it away in some recess of his shirt--when a hand was thrust suddenly under his nose. "Come on, now, divvy!" snapped a voice in his ear. It was the driver of the car, who had dropped from his seat to the ground. A gleam of hate replaced the tears in the Flopper's eyes. "Go to hell!" he snarled through thin lips--and his hand closed automatically over the cap. "Come on, now, I ain't got no time to fool!" prompted the man, with a leer. "I'm dead onto your lay, and there's a bull comin' along now--half or him, which?" The Flopper's eyes caught the brass buttons of the officer returning on his beat, and his face was white with an inhuman passion, as, clutching a portion of what was left in the hat, he lifted his hand from the rest. "Thanks!" grinned the chauffeur, snatching at the remainder. "'Tain't half, but it'll do"--and he hurried across the sidewalk, and disappeared inside a saloon. Oaths, voicing a passion that rocked the Flopper to his soul, purled in a torrid stream from his lips, and for a moment made him forget the proximity of the brass buttons. He raised his fist, that still clenched some of the money, and shook it after the other--and his fist, uplifted in midair, was caught in a vicious grip--the harness bull was standing over him. "Beat it!" rasped the officer roughly, "or I'll--hullo, what you got here? Open your hand!"--he gave a sharp twist as he spoke, the Flopper's fingers uncurled, and the money dropped into the policeman's other hand--held conveniently below the Flopper's. "It's mine--gimme it back," whined the Flopper. "Yours! Yours, is it!" growled the officer. "Where'd you get it? Stole it, eh? Go on, now, beat it--or I'll run you in! Beat it!" With twitching fingers, the Flopper picked up his cap, placed it on his head and sidled away. Ten yards along, in the shadow of the buildings again, he looked back--the officer was still standing there, twirling his stick, one hand just emerging from his pocket. The Flopper's finger nails scratched along the stone pavement and curved into the palm of his hand until the skin under the knuckles was bloodless white, and his lips moved in ugly, whispered words--then, still whispering, he went on again. Down the Bowery he went like a human toad, keeping in the shadows, keeping his eyes on the ground before him, a glint like a shudder in their depths--on he went with hopping, lurching jerks, with whispering lips. Street after street he passed, and then at a corner he turned and went East--not far, only to the side entrance of the saloon on the corner known, to those who _knew_, as the "Roost."