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Schrumm established them under a growing palm,
with two seidls between them. Vuyning made a
pleasant reference to meteorological conditions, thus
forming a binge upon which might be swung the
door leading from the thought repository of the
other.
"In the first place," said his companion, with the
air of one who presents his credentials, "I want you
to understand that I am a crook. Out West I am
known as Rowdy the Dude. Pickpocket, supper man,
second-story man, yeggman, boxman, all-round burglar,
cardsharp and slickest con man west of the
Twenty-third Street ferry landing -- that's my history.
That's to show I'm on the square -- with you.
My name's Emerson."
"Confound old Kirk with his fish stories" said
Vuyning to himself, with silent glee as he went
through his pockets for a card. "It's pronounced
'Vining,'" he said, as he tossed it over to the other.
"And I'll be as frank with you. I'm just a kind of
a loafer, I guess, living on my daddy's money. At
the club they call me 'Left-at-the-Post.' I never
did a day's work in my life; and I haven't the heart
to run over a chicken when I'm motoring. It's a
pretty shabby record, altogether."
"There's one thing you can do," said Emerson,
admiringly; "you can carry duds. I've watched you
several times pass on Broadway. You look the best
dressed man I've seen. And I'll bet you a gold mine
I've got $50 worth more gent's furnishings on my
frame than you have. That's what I wanted to see
you about. I can't do the trick. Take a look at
me. What's wrong?"
"Stand up," said Vuyning.
Emerson arose, and slowly revolved.
"You've been 'outfitted,'" declared the clubman.
"Some Broadway window-dresser has misused you."
"That's an expensive suit, though, Emerson."
"A hundred dollars," said Emerson.
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