“Get me a job, Remsen,” he said.  “I’ve just handed a barber my last shilling.”

“No trouble at all,” said Remsen.  “I know a lot of men who have banks and stores and things downtown.  Any particular line you fancy?”

“Yes,” said O’Roon, with a look of interest.  “I took a walk in your Central Park this morning.  I’d like to be one of those bobbies on horseback.  That would be about the ticket.  Besides, it’s the only thing I could do.  I can ride a little and the fresh air suits me.  Think you could land that for me?”

Remsen was sure that he could.  And in a very short time he did.  And they who were not above looking at mounted policemen might have seen a well set up, affable, cool young man on a prancing chestnut steed attending to his duties along the driveways of the park.

And now at the extreme risk of wearying old gentlemen who carry leather fob chains, and elderly ladies who—­but no! grandmother herself yet thrills at foolish, immortal Romeo—­there must be a hint of love at first sight.

It came just as Remsen was strolling into Fifth avenue from his club a few doors away.

A motor car was creeping along foot by foot, impeded by a freshet of vehicles that filled the street.  In the car was a chauffeur and an old gentleman with snowy side whiskers and a Scotch plaid cap which could not be worn while automobiling except by a personage.  Not even a wine agent would dare do it.  But these two were of no consequence—­except, perhaps, for the guiding of the machine and the paying for it.  At the old gentleman’s side sat a young lady more beautiful than pomegranate blossoms, more exquisite than the first quarter moon viewed at twilight through the tops of oleanders.  Remsen saw her and knew his fate.  He could have flung himself under the very wheels that conveyed her, but he knew that would be the last means of attracting the attention of those who ride in motor cars.  Slowly the auto passed, and, if we place the poets above the autoists, carried the heart of Remsen with it.  Here was a large city of millions, and many women who at a certain distance appear to resemble pomegranate blossoms.  Yet he hoped to see her again; for each one fancies that his romance has its own tutelary guardian and divinity.

Luckily for Remsen’s peace of mind there came a diversion in the guise of a reunion of the Gentle Riders of the city.  There were not many of them—­perhaps a score—­and there was wassail and things to eat, and speeches and the Spaniard was bearded again in recapitulation.  And when daylight threatened them the survivors prepared to depart.  But some remained upon the battlefield.  One of these was Trooper O’Roon, who was not seasoned to potent liquids.  His legs declined to fulfil the obligations they had sworn to the police department.

“I’m stewed, Remsen,” said O’Roon to his friend.  “Why do they build hotels that go round and round like catherine wheels?  They’ll take away my shield and break me.  I can think and talk con-con-consec-sec-secutively, but I s-s-stammer with my feet.  I’ve got to go on duty in three hours.  The jig is up, Remsen.  The jig is up, I tell you.”