“Things have been coming my way, for a fact, and it is all remarkable, when all is said. You know Sturtevant, don’t you? It’s all due to him. I was plumb down on my luck, – thinking of the morgue and all that, – looking for you, in fact, with the idea you would lend me enough to pay my room rent, when I met Sturtevant. He told me a story, and, really, old man, it is the most remarkable story you ever heard; it made a new man out of me. Within twenty-four hours I was on my feet and I’ve hardly known a care or a trouble since.”

Avery’s statement, uttered calmly, and with the air of one who had merely pronounced an axiom, recalled to my mind the conversation with Sturtevant in the cafe that stormy night, nearly a month before.

“It must be a remarkable story,” I said, incredulously. “Sturtevant mentioned it to me once. I have not seen him since. Where is he now?” “He has been making war sketches in Cuba, at two hundred a week; he’s just returned. It is a fact that everybody who has heard the story has done well since. There are Cosgrove and Phillips, – friends of mine, – you don’t know them. One’s a real estate agent; the other’s a broker’s clerk, Sturtevant told them the story, and they have experienced the same results that I have; and they are not the only ones.

“Do you know the story?” I asked. “Will you try its effect on me?”

“Certainly, with the greatest pleasure in the world. I would like to have it printed in big black type, and posted on the elevated stations throughout New York. It certainly would do a lot of good, and it’s as simple as A, B, C: like living on a farm. Excuse me a minute, will you? I see Danforth over there. Back in a minute, old chap.

” If the truth be told, I was hungry. My pocket at that moment contained exactly five cents; just enough to pay my fare up-town, but insufficient also to stand the expense of filling my stomach.

There was a “night owl” wagon in the neighborhood, where I had frequently “stood up” the purveyor of midnight dainties, and to him I applied. He was leaving the wagon as I was on the point of entering it, and I accosted him. “I’m broke again,” I said, with extreme cordiality. “You’ll have to trust me once more. Some ham and eggs, I think,
will do for the present.”

He coughed, hesitated a moment, and then re-entered the wagon with me. “Mr. Currier is good for anything he orders” he said to the man in charge; “one of my old customers. This is Mr. Bryan, Mr. Currier. He will take good care of you, and ‘stand for’ you, just the same as I would. The fact is, I have sold out. I’ve just turned over the outfit to Bryan.

By the way, isn’t Mr. Sturtevant a friend of yours?”

I nodded.

I couldn’t have spoken if I had tried. “Well,” continued the ex-”night owl” man, “he came in here one night, about a month ago, and told me the most wonderful story I ever heard. I’ve just bought a place in Eighth Avenue, where I am going to run a regular restaurant – near Twenty third Street. Come and see me.” He was out of the wagon and the sliding door had been banged shut before I could stop him; so I ate my ham and eggs in silence, and resolved that I would hear that story before I slept.