"I used to do lots of things," he answered, as the waiter opened the champagne. "I never heard anybody get as much out of 'The Son of a Gamboleer' as you did," White continued. "I joined a negro-minstrel troupe as second tenor twelve years ago, but we got stranded in Hartford, and I had to walk home. I've tried to do a song and dance in the Bowery dime museums since then, more than once. But it's no use." When they had made an end of the canvas-backs and the _brut_ '84, Johnny sat back in his chair and smiled, and said, "Well, this was worth while." Then the coffee came, and White said, "You forgot to order the liqueur, Johnny." "You see what it is to be out of practice," he replied. "I'd like some orange curacoa." "And I will take a little green mint," said White to the waiter. "And bring some cigars--Henry Clays." "That's right," Johnny declared. "My father was always a Henry Clay man, and I suppose that's why I like those cigars." After the cigars were lighted White looked his companion square in the face. "Are you sure," he asked, "that we can do nothing for you?" "Dead sure," was the answer. "Nothing?" "You have given me a good dinner," said Johnny. "That's enough. That's more than most of my old friends would give me. And there's nothing more to be done." White held his peace for the moment. Johnny took a long sip of his coffee, and drew three or four times at his cigar. "That's a first-rate cigar," he said. "I haven't smoked a Henry Clay for nearly two years, and then I picked up one a man had lighted, between the acts, outside of Daly's." He puffed at it again with voluptuous appreciation, and then leaned across the table to White and remarked, confidentially, "Do you know, Bob, 'most everything I've cared for in this world has been immoral, or expensive, or indigestible." "Yes," White admitted; "I suppose that's the cause of your bad luck." "I've had lots of luck in my life," was the response, "good and bad--better than I deserved, most of it--this dinner, for example; I should remember it even without to-morrow's dyspepsia. But what's the use of anticipating evil? I'll let the next day take care of itself, and make the best of this one. There are several hours of it left--where shall we go now?" (1892.) IN THE MIDST OF LIFE It was late in the afternoon when John Suydam turned into Twenty-third Street, and he remarked the absence of the gleam of color generally visible far away to the westward beyond the end of the street and across the river. There was no red vista that Christmas Eve, for the sky was overcast and lowering, and there was a damp chill in the air, a premonition of approaching snow. It was about the edge of dusk as he skirted Madison Square and saw the electric-lights twinkle out suddenly up and down Fifth Avenue, and in the square here and there.