Let's see--it seems I've read
about a king or a Cardiff giant or something in old times who used to go
about with false whiskers on, making Persian dates with folks he hadn't
been introduced to. That don't listen like a bad idea. I certainly have
got a case of humdrumness and fatigue on for the ones I do know. That
old Cardiff used to pick up cases of trouble as he ran upon 'em and give
'em gold--sequins, I think it was--and make 'em marry or got 'em good
Government jobs. Now, I'd like something of that sort. My money is as
good as his was even if the magazines do ask me every month where I got
it. Yes, I guess I'll do a little Cardiff business to-night, and see how
it goes."
Plainly dressed, old Tom Crowley left his Madison Avenue palace, and
walked westward and then south. As he stepped to the sidewalk, Fate,
who holds the ends of the strings in the central offices of all the
enchanted cities pulled a thread, and a young man twenty blocks away
looked at a wall clock, and then put on his coat.
James Turner worked in one of those little hat-cleaning establishments
on Sixth Avenue in which a fire alarm rings when you push the door
open, and where they clean your hat while you wait--two days.
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