I am the friend of me friend Tobin， according to meinterpretations. ’Tis easy to be a friend to the prosperous，for it pays； ’tis not hard to be a friend to the poor， for yeget puffed up by gratitude and have your picture printedstanding in front of a tenement with a scuttle of coal andan orphan in each hand. But it strains the art of friendshipto be true friend to a born fool. And that’s what I’mdoing，” says I， “for， in my opinion， there’s no fortune tobe read from the palm of me hand that wasn’t printedthere with the handle of a pick. And， though ye’ve got thecrookedest nose in New York City， I misdoubt that all thefortune-tellers doing business could milk good luck fromye. But the lines of Danny’s hand pointed to ye fair， and I’llassist him to experiment with ye until he’s convinced ye’redry.”
After that the man turns， sudden， to laughing. He leansagainst a corner and laughs considerable. Then he clapsme and Tobin on the backs of us and takes us by an armapiece.
“’Tis my mistake，” says he. “How could I be expectinganything so fine and wonderful to be turning the cornerupon me？ I came near being found unworthy. Hard by，”
says he， “is a café， snug and suitable for the entertainmentof idiosyncrasies. Let us go there and have drink while wediscuss the unavailability of the categorical.”
So saying， he marched me and Tobin to the back roomof a saloon， and ordered the drinks， and laid the money onthe table. He looks at me and Tobin like brothers of his，and we have the segars.
“Ye must know，” says the man of destiny， “that me walkin life is one that is called the literary. I wander abroadbe night seeking idiosyncrasies in the masses and truthin the heavens above. When ye came upon me I was incontemplation of the elevated road in conjunction withthe chief luminary of night. The rapid transit is poetry andart： the moon but a tedious， dry body， moving by rote. Butthese are private opinions， for， in the business of literature，the conditions are reversed. ’Tis me hope to be writing abook to explain the strange things I have discovered in life.”
“Ye will put me in a book，” says Tobin， disgusted； “willye put me in a book？”
“I will not，” says the man， “for the covers will not holdye. Not yet. The best I can do is to enjoy ye meself， forthe time is not ripe for destroying the limitations of print.
Ye would look fantastic in type. All alone by meself mustI drink this cup of joy. But， I thank ye， boys； I am trulygrateful.”
“The talk of ye，” says Tobin， blowing through hismoustache and pounding the table with his fist， “is aneyesore to me patience. There was good luck promised outof the crook of your nose， but ye bear fruit like the bangof a drum. Ye resemble， with your noise of books， the windblowing through a crack. Sure， now， I would be thinkingthe palm of me hand lied but for the coming true of thenigger man and the blonde lady and—”
“Whist！” says the long man； “would ye be led astray byphysiognomy？ Me nose will do what it can within bounds.
Let us have these glasses filled again， for ’tis good tokeep idiosyncrasies well moistened， they being subject todeterioration in a dry moral atmosphere.”
So， the man of literature makes good， to my notion， forhe pays， cheerful， for everything， the capital of me andTobin being exhausted by prediction. But Tobin is sore，and drinks quiet， with the red showing in his eye.
By and by we moved out， for ’twas eleven o’clock， andstands a bit upon the sidewalk. And then the man says hemust be going home， and invites me and Tobin to walkthat way. We arrives on a side street two blocks awaywhere there is a stretch of brick houses with high stoopsand iron fences. The man stops at one of them and looksup at the top windows which he finds dark.
“’Tis me humble dwelling，” says he， “and I begin toperceive by the signs that me wife has retired to slumber.
Therefore I will venture a bit in the way of hospitality. ’Tisme wish that ye enter the basement room， where we dine，and partake of a reasonable refreshment. There will besome fine cold fowl and cheese and a bottle or two of ale.
Ye will be welcome to enter and eat， for I am indebted toye for diversions.”
The appetite and conscience of me and Tobin wascongenial to the proposition， though ’twas sticking hard inDanny’s superstitions to think that a few drinks and a coldlunch should represent the good fortune promised by thepalm of his hand.
“Step down the steps，” says the man with the crookednose， “and I will enter by the door above and let ye in. Iwill ask the new girl we have in the kitchen，” says he， “tomake ye a pot of coffee to drink before ye go. ’Tis finecoffee Katie Mahorner makes for a green girl just landedthree months. Step in，” says the man， “and I’ll send herdown to ye.”
