“Well, I’d moughty like five hun’red of it, ef that’s ’greeable to yo’.”

Felix whistled.

“Five hundred?  Pork-chops must be coming high.  You don’t want to carry all that money around, do you?”

Gideon did not answer; he looked very gloomy.

Stuhk hastened to cheer him.

“Of course you can have anything you want.  Wait a minute, and I will get it for you.

“I’ll bet that coon’s going to buy himself a ring or something,” he reflected as he went in search of the local manager and Gideon’s money.

But Stuhk was wrong.  Gideon had no intention of buying himself a ring.  For the matter of that, he had several that were amply satisfactory.  They had size and sparkle and luster, all the diamond brilliance that rings need to have; and for none of them had he paid much over five dollars.  He was amply supplied with jewelry in which he felt perfect satisfaction.  His present want was positive, if nebulous; he desired a fortune in his pocket, bulky, tangible evidence of his miraculous success.  Ever since Stuhk had found him, life had had an unreal quality for him.  His Monte Cristo wealth was too much like a fabulous, dream-found treasure, money that could not be spent without danger of awakening.  And he had dropped into the habit of storing it about him, so that in any pocket into which he plunged his hand he might find a roll of crisp evidence of reality.  He liked his bills to be of all denominations, and some so large as exquisitely to stagger imagination, others charming by their number and crispness—­the dignified, orange paper of a man of assured position and wealth-crackling greenbacks the design of which tinged the whole with actuality.  He was specially partial to engravings of President Lincoln, the particular savior and patron of his race.  This five hundred dollars he was adding to an unreckoned sum of about two thousand, merely as extra fortification against a growing sense of gloom.  He wished to brace his flagging spirits with the gay wine of possession, and he was glad, when the money came, that it was in an elastic-bound roll, so bulky that it was pleasantly uncomfortable in his pocket as he left his manager.

As he turned into the brilliantly lighted street from the somber alleyway of the stage entrance, he paused for a moment to glance at his own name, in three-foot letters of red, before the doors of the theater.  He could read, and the large block type always pleased him.  “THIS WEEK:  GIDEON.”  That was all.  None of the fulsome praise, the superlative, necessary definition given to lesser performers.  He had been, he remembered, “GIDEON, America’s Foremost Native Comedian,” a title that was at once boast and challenge.  That necessity was now past, for he was a national character; any explanatory qualification would have been an insult to the public intelligence.  To the world he was just “Gideon”; that was enough.  It gave him pleasure, as he sauntered along, to see the announcement repeated on window cards and hoardings.