The bouncer was consumed with a desire to examine the contents, and, as bouncer and general floor-manager of the house, expected that they would naturally be placed under his care.  When, however, it was announced that the newcomer had engaged “One-eyed Dutchy” as his valet, the bouncer swore, and said “he might go to ——.”

There was something peculiar and mysterious in a ten-cent guest of the Bismarck hiring a valet.  The Germans called him Graf von Habernichts.  He kept aloof from the crowd.  He had no friends and would permit no one to establish any intercourse with him.

His valet informed an intimate friend that the Graf received a check from Germany every three months.  While it lasted, it was the valet’s duty to order, pay for, and keep a record of all food and refreshment.  When the bouncer told me of these things, I tried very hard to persuade the Graf to dine at my house; but he declined without even the formality of thanks.  After a few months, the revenue of the mysterious stranger dried up and “One-eyed Dutchy” was discharged.

A snowstorm found the old Graf with an attack of rheumatism, and helpless.  Then he was forced to relinquish his ten-cent cot and move upstairs to a seven-cent bunk.  When he was able to get out again, he came back dragging up the rickety old stairs a scissors-grinder.  Several of the guests offered a hand, but he spurned them all, and stuck to his job until he got it up.

Another snowstorm brought back his rheumatism; he got permission to sit indoors.  The old wheel lay idle in the corner; he was hungry and his pipe had been empty for a day and a night; but still he sat bolt upright, in pain, alone, with starvation staring him in the face.  The third day of his voluntary fast he got a letter.  It contained a one-dollar bill.  The sender was watching at a safe distance and he recorded that the Graf’s puzzled look almost developed into a smile.  He gathered himself together and hobbled out to a nearby German saloon.  Next day came the first sign of surrender.  He accepted a commission to take a census of the house.  This at last helped to thaw him out, but it didn’t last long.

His rheumatism prevented him from pushing his wheel through the streets and I secured him a corner in a locksmith’s basement.  He had not been there many weeks when he disappeared.  The locksmith told a story which seemed incredible.  He said the old Graf had sold his wheel and given the proceeds to an Irishwoman to help defray the funeral expenses of her child.

Some months later, the clerk of the bunk-house got a postal card from “One-eyed Dutchy.”  He was on the Island, and the Graf and he were working together on the ash gang.  I secured his release from the Island.

When he returned to the bunk-house, every one who had ever seen him noted a marked change.  He no longer lived in a shell.  He had become a human, and took an interest in what was going on.  One night when a few of the Ex-Club were exchanging reminiscences, he was prevailed upon to tell his story.  He asked us to keep it a secret for ten years.  The time is up, and I am the only one of that group alive.