finger in, had he looked for them—but he did not. He saw gasoliers as resplendent as the most gorgeous he had ever seen in a saloon; and they hung from ceilings that were bright with squirt-brush decorations of red and blue flowers and red and green fruit. The bathroom shone like a plumber's window display.
Carney nodded. "'S all right," he said. "'S all right."
He left his watch as a "deposit" and drove off to his breakfast; but he went roundabout, by way of Third Avenue and Canal Street, slowly, on the lookout for furniture stores. When he came to one with a gold sign, in letters a yard high—"Everything for Housekeeping," he stopped short. Below it, on a net banner, he read: "Ask to see our $129 flat, furnished complete. Ten per cent, off for cash. One dollar opens an account." He read it twice, muttering it over. Then he whipped up his horses suddenly and rattled down the street with as much noise as a tally-ho.
"Gee!" he laughed as he swung the corner. "This 'll bust the bank."
By half-past ten, he was back at Mittelbaum & Schwarz's "Furniture Emporium." On the fourth floor, the enterprising manager had screened off four compartments to represent a parlor, a bedroom, a kitchen, and a dining-room. And when Carney entered that parlor, between pea-green portieres beautiful with yellow ball-fringe, he took off his hat. Four rich red "damask" chairs and a sofa were arranged about the walls; a square "parlor" table, as big as a chess-
