Black Riley gauged Fuzzy quickly with his blueberry eye as a wrestler does. His hand was itching to play the Roman and wrest the rag Sabine from the extemporaneous merry-andrew who was entertaining an angel unaware. But he refrained. Fuzzy was fat and solid and big. Three inches of well-nourished corporeity, defended from the winter winds by dingy linen, intervened between his vest and trousers. Countless small, circular wrinkles running around his coat-sleeves and knees guaranteed the quality of his bone and muscle. His small, blue eyes, bathed in the moisture of altruism and wooziness, looked upon you kindly, yet without abashment. He was whiskerly, whiskyly, fleshily formidable. So, Black Riley temporized. “Wot’ll you take for it, den?” he asked. “Money,” said Fuzzy, with husky firmness, “cannot buy her.” He was intoxicated with the artist’s first sweet cup of attainment. To set a faded-blue, earth-stained rag-doll on a bar, to hold mimic converse with it, and to find his heart leaping with the sense of plaudits earned and his throat scorching with free libations poured in his honor—could base coin buy him from such achievements? You will perceive that Fuzzy had the temperament. Fuzzy walked out with the gait of a trained sea-lion in search of other cafés to conquer. Though the dusk of twilight was hardly yet apparent, lights were beginning to spangle the city like pop-corn bursting in a deep skillet. Christmas Eve, impatiently expected, was peeping over the brink of the hour. Millions had prepared for its celebration. Towns would be painted red. You, yourself, have heard the horns and dodged the capers of the Saturnalians. “Pigeon” McCarthy, Black Riley, and “One-ear” Mike held a hasty converse outside Grogan’s. They were narrow-chested, pallid striplings, not fighters in the open, but more dangerous in their ways of warfare than the most terrible of Turks. Fuzzy, in a pitched battle, could have eaten the three of them. In a go-as-you-please encounter he was already doomed. They overtook him just as he and Betsy were entering Costigan’s Casino. They deflected him, and shoved the newspaper under his nose. Fuzzy could read—and more. “Boys,” said he, “you are certainly damn true friends. Give me a week to think it over.” The soul of a real artist is quenched with difficulty. The boys carefully pointed out to him that advertisements were soulless, and that the deficiencies of the day might not be supplied by the morrow. “A cool hundred,” said Fuzzy thoughtfully and mushily. “Boys,” said he, “you are true friends. I’ll go up and claim the reward. The show business is not what it used to be.” Night was falling more surely. The three tagged at his sides to the foot of the rise on which stood the Millionaire’s house. There Fuzzy turned upon them acrimoniously. “You are a pack of putty-faced beagle-hounds,” he roared. “Go away.” They went away—a little way.