“Yes, sir.  I’d prefer to stay with you.”

“But there’ll be no more pleasant pickings, my poor and faithless steward!  If you should convert anything more to your own bank account I’ll be obliged to stroll about naked.”

“Yes, sir,” muttered Burgess; “I brought back some things last night—­them socks, shirt-pins and studs, and the fob. . . .  Yes, sir; I fetched ’em back, I did—­” A sudden and curious gleam of pride crossed the smirk for an instant;—­“I guess my gentleman ain’t agoing to look no worse than the next Fifth Avenue swell he meets—­even if he ain’t et no devilled kidneys for breakfast and he don’t dine on no canvas-back at Delmonico’s.  No, sir.”

Berkley sat down on the bed’s edge and laughed until he could scarcely see the man, who observed him in patient annoyance.  And every time Berkley looked at him he went into another fit of uncontrollable laughter, as he realised the one delightful weakness in this thorough-paced rogue—­pride in the lustre cast upon himself by the immaculate appearance of a fashionable master.  But after reflection, it did not astonish him too much; the besetting weakness of rogues is vanity in one form or another.  This happened to be an unusual form.

“Burgess,” he said, “I don’t care how you go to hell.  Go with me if you like or go it alone.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“You’re welcome,” replied Berkley gravely, and, tucking his cane up under one arm, he went out to business, drawing on a pair of lemon-coloured kid gloves.

Later he searched his pockets for the cigar he had denied himself the evening before.  It was not there.  In fact, at that moment, Burgess, in the boarding-house backyard, was promenading up and down, leering at the Swedish scullion, and enjoying the last expensive cigar that his master was likely to purchase in many a day.

The street, and avenue were seething with people; people stood at their windows looking out at the news-boys who swarmed everywhere, shouting endless extras; people were gathering on corners, in squares, along park railings, under porticos of hotels, and every one of them had a newspaper and was reading.

In front of the St. Nicholas Hotel a lank and shabby man had mounted a cracker box, and was evidently making a speech, but Berkley could distinguish nothing he said because of the wild cheering.

Everywhere, threading the throng, hurried boys and men selling miniature flags, red-white-and-blue rosettes, and tricoloured cockades; and everybody was purchasing the national colours—­the passing crowd had already become bright with badges; the Union colours floated in streamers from the throats or sleeves of pretty girls, glinted in the lapels of dignified old gentlemen, decorated the hats of the stage-drivers and the blinders of their horses.

“Certainly,” said Berkley, buying a badge and pinning it in his button-hole.  “Being a hero, I require the trade-mark.  Kindly permit that I offer a suggestion—­” a number of people waiting to buy badges; were now listening to him—­“those gentlemen gathered there in front of the New York Hotel seem to be without these marks which distinguish heroes from citizens.  No doubt they’ll be delighted to avail themselves of your offered cockades.”