Sheener was a Jewish newsboy; that is to say, a representative of the only thoroughbred people in the world. I have known Sheener for a good many years, and he is worth knowing; also, the true tale of his life might have inspired Scheherazade. A book must be made of Sheener some day. For the present, it is enough to say that he had the enterprise which adversity has taught his people; he had the humility which they have learned by enduring insults they were powerless to resent, and he had the courage and the heart which were his ancient heritage. And--the man Evans had captured and enslaved his imagination. He believed in Evans from the beginning. This may have been through a native credulity which failed to manifest itself in his other dealings with the world. I think it more probable that Evans and his pretensions appealed to the love of romance native to Sheener. I think he enjoyed believing, as we enjoy lending ourselves to the illusion of the theatre. Whatever the explanation, a certain alliance developed between the two; a something like friendship. I was one of those who laughed at Sheener’s credulity, but he told me, in his energetic fashion, that I was making a mistake. “You got that guy wrong,” he would say. “He ain’t always been a bum. A guy with half an eye can see that. The way he talks, and the way he walks, and all. There’s class to him, I’m telling you. Class, bo.” “He walks like a splay-footed walrus, and he talks like a drunken old hound,” I told Sheener. “He’s got you buffaloed, that’s all.” “Pull in your horns; you’re coming to a bridge,” Sheener warned me. “Don’t be a goat all your life. He’s a gent; that’s what this guy is.” “Then I’m glad I’m a roughneck,” I retorted; and Sheener shook his head. “That’s all right,” he exclaimed. “That’s all right. He ain’t had it easy, you know. Scrubbing spittoons is enough to take the polish off any guy. I’m telling you he’s there. Forty ways. You’ll see, bo. You’ll see.” “I’m waiting,” I said. “Keep right on,” Sheener advised me. “Keep right on. The old stuff is there. It’ll show. Take it from me.” I laughed at him. “If I get you,” I said, “you’re looking for something along the line of ‘Noblesse Oblige.’ What?” “Cut the comedy,” he retorted. “I’m telling you, the old class is there. You can’t keep a fast horse in a poor man’s stable.” “Blood will tell, eh?” “Take it from me,” said Sheener.