As far as the eye could apprehend him, he was palpably an outlander.  No such pink of perfection ever sprung from the simple soil of Our Square.  A hard pink it was, suggestive less of the flower than of enameled metal.  He was freshly shaved, freshly pressed, freshly anointed, and, as he paced gallantly across my vision, I perceived him to be slightly grizzled at the temples, but nevertheless of a vigorous and grim youthfulness that was almost daunting.  Not until he returned and stood before me with his feet planted a little apart, giving an impression of purposeful immovability to his wiry figure, did I note that his eyes belied the general jauntiness of his personality.  They were cold, direct eyes, with a filmy appearance, rather like those of a morose and self-centered turtle which had lived in our fountain until the day the Rosser twins fell in, when it crawled out and emigrated.

“Nice day,” said the stranger, shifting a patent-leathered foot out of a puddle.

“Very,” I agreed.  Finical over-accuracy about the weather is likely to discourage a budding acquaintanceship.

“Have one?” He extended a gemmed cigarette-case, and when, removing my pipe, I had declined in suitable terms, lighted up, himself.  He then sat down upon the dryest portion of the bench not occupied by my person.

“Whiplash win in the fi’th,” he volunteered presently.

“Yes?” said I with a polite but spurious show of interest.

“Under a pull.  Spread-eagled his field.”

“Who is Whiplash, may I ask?”

“Oh, Gaw!” said the pink man, appalled.  He searched my face suspiciously.  “A hoss,” he stated at length, satisfied of my ignorance.

After several reflective puffs, the smoke of which insufficiently veiled his furtive appraisal of myself, he tried again: 

“They give O’Dowd a shade, last night.”

“Indeed?  Who did?”

“The sporting writers.”

“As a testimonial?” I inquired, adding that a shade, whether of the lamp or sun species seemed an unusual sort of gift.

My interlocutor groaned.  He drew from the pocket of his gray-check cutaway, purple and fine linen, the purple being an ornate and indecipherable monogram, wherewith to wipe his troubled brow.  Susan Gluck’s Orphan, who was playing down-wind, paused to inhale deeply and with a beatific expression.  Restoring the fragrant square to its repository, the pink one essayed another conversational skirmish.

“The Reds copped again yesterday.”

“If you are referring to the raid on Anarchist Headquarters in Avenue C, I should have inferred that the Reds were copped, to use your term.”

Curt and contemptuous laughter was his response.  “Don’t you ever read the papers, down here?”

“Certainly,” I retorted with some spirit, for the implied slur upon Our Square stung me.  “In fact, I was reading one of our local publications when you inter—­when you arrived.  It contains some very interesting poetry.”