The Neer-Do-Well | Page 4

choice
half-dozen.
These, however, were kindred spirits, veterans of many a midnight
escapade, composing a flying squadron of exactly the right proportions
for the utmost efficiency and mobility combined.
The hour was now past a respectable bedtime and the Tenderloin had
awakened. The roar of commerce had dwindled away, and the
comparative silence was broken only by the clang of an infrequent
trolley. The streets were empty of vehicles, except for a few cabs that
followed the little group persistently. As yet there was no need of them.
The crowd was made up, for the most part, of healthy, full-blooded
boys, fresh from weeks of training, strong of body, and with stomachs
like galvanized iron. They showed scant evidence of intoxication. As

for the weakest member of the party, it had long been known that one
drink made Higgins drunk, and all further libations merely served to
maintain him in status quo. Exhaustive experiments had proved that he
was able to retain consciousness and the power of locomotion until the
first streak of dawn appeared, after which he usually became a burden.
For the present he was amply able to take care of himself, and now,
although his speech was slightly thick, his demeanor was as didactic
and severe as ever, and, save for the vagrant workings of his mind, he
might have passed for a curate. As a whole, the crowd was in fine
fettle.
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."
The college men treated this new recruit with a hilarious cordiality, to
which he responded with the air of one quite accustomed to such
reunions.
"I was at the game this afternoon," he explained, when the greetings
were over, "and recognized you chaps when you came in. I'm a football
fan myself."
"You look as if you might have played," said Anthony, sizing up the
broad frame of the Missourian with the critical eye of a coach.