The Austrian Village is a saloon, dance-hall, and all-night restaurant, flourishing brazenly within a stone's throw of Broadway, and it is counted one of the sights of the city. Upon entering, one may pass through a saloon where white-aproned waiters load trays and wrangle over checks, then into a ball-room filled with the flotsam and jetsam of midnight Manhattan. Above and around this room runs a white-and-gold balcony partitioned into boxes; beneath it are many tables separated from the waxed floor by a railing. Inside the enclosure men in street-clothes and smartly gowned girls with enormous hats revolve nightly to the strains of an orchestra which nearly succeeds in drowning their voices. From the tables come laughter and snatches of song; waiters dash hither and yon. It is all very animated and gay on the surface, and none but the closely observant would note the weariness beneath the women's smiles, the laughter notes that occasionally jar, or perceive that the tailored gowns are imitations, the ermines mainly rabbit-skins. But the eyes of youth are not analytical, and seen through a rosy haze the sight was inspiriting. The college men selected a table, and, shouldering the occupants aside without ceremony, seated themselves and pounded for a waiter. Padden, the proprietor, came toward them, and, after greeting Anthony and Higgins by a shake of his left hand, ducked his round gray head in acknowledgment of an introduction to the others. "Excuse my right," said he, displaying a swollen hand criss-crossed with surgeon's plaster. "A fellow got noisy last night." "D'jou hit him?" queried Higgins, gazing with interest at the proprietor's knuckles. "Yes. I swung for his jaw and went high. Teeth--" Mr. Padden said, vaguely. He turned a shrewd eye upon Anthony. "I heard about the game to-day. That was all right." Kirk grinned boyishly. "I didn't have much to do with it; these are the fellows." "Don't believe him," interrupted Ringold. "Sure! he's too modest," Higgins chimed in. "Fine fellow an' all that, understand, but he's got two faults--he's modest and he's lazy. He's caused a lot of uneasiness to his father and me. Father's a fine man, too." He nodded his long, narrow head solemnly. "We know who did the trick for us," added Anderson, the straw-haired half-back. "Glad you dropped in," Mr. Padden assured them. "Anything you boys want and can't get, let me know." When he had gone Higgins averred: "There's a fine man--peaceful, refined--got a lovely character, too. Let's be gentlemen while we're in his place." Ringold rose. "I'm going to dance, fellows," he announced, and his companions followed him, with the exception of the cadaverous Higgins, who maintained that dancing was a pastime for the frivolous and weak. When they returned to their table they found a stranger was seated with him, who rose as Higgins made him known. "Boys, meet my old friend, Mr. Jefferson Locke, of St. Louis. He's all right."