his neck at the tall buildings. At this they ceased to smile, and even to look at him. It had been done so often. A few glanced at the antique valise to see what Coney “attraction” or brand of chewing gum he might be thus dinning into his memory. But for the most part he was ignored, Even the newsboys looked bored when he scampered like a circus clown out of the way of cabs and street cars.
At Eight Avenue stood “Bunco Harry,” with his dyed mustache and shiny, good-natured eyes. Harry was too good an artist not to be pained at the sight of an actor overdoing his part. He edged up to the countryman, who had stopped to open his mouth at a jewelry store window, and shook his head.
“Too thick, pal,” he said, critically—“too thick by a couple of inches. I don’t know what your lay is; but you’ve got the properties on too thick. That hay, now—why, they don’t even allow that on Proctor’s circuit any more.”
“I don’t understand you, mister,” said the green one. “I’m not lookin’ for any circus. I’ve just run down from Ulster County to look at the town, bein’ that the hayin’s over with. Gosh! but it’s a whopper. I thought Poughkeepsie was some punkins; but this here town is five times as big.”
“Oh, well,” said “Bunco Harry,” raising his eye-brows, “I didn’t mean to butt in. You don’t have to tell. I
