The Flaw in the Sapphire. Charles M. Snyder

His only parallel was the comedian who is compelled to take himself seriously and make the most of it, or a tart plum that concludes in a mellow prune.

He was the affinity of two celebrated instances to the contrary.

To those who enjoy the whimsies of paradox he presented an astonishing resemblance, in countenance, to the late Benjamin Disraeli, and maintained in speech the unmistakable accent of O’Connell, the Hebrew statesman’s Celtic antagonist.

For these reasons, until the nature of his business was discovered, he was regarded with interest by that class which is disposed to estimate the contents of a book by the character of the binding, or thinks it can measure a man’s ability by the size of his hat.

On nearer acquaintance, he was relegated to the dubious distinction of an oddity to whom you would be pleased to introduce your friends if you had only a satisfactory account of his antecedents.

He was cheerful, startling, ready and adroit.

Until betrayed by his brief but effectual familiarities, it was a curious experience to remark the approach of this singular being and wonder at the appraising suggestion in his speculative glance.

Presently you decided that it was the intention of this young man to address you, and, unconsciously, you accorded him the opportunity, only to be scandalized the moment afterward by the query, altogether incongruous in such a promising aspect:

“Any old clothes to-day?”

And you passed on, chagrined and wondering.

For a number of years, while his auditors paused in an attempt to disentangle the Semite from the Celt, there was scarcely a day in which he had not subjected himself to the more or less pronounced hazards of rebuff incident to his invariable query, and there were few citizens of the sterner sex whom he had not thus addressed.

Apparently no consideration restrained him.

None was too dignified, none sufficiently austere to escape his solicitation; and while, as a rule, he waited until the object of his regard came to a standstill, he had been known to approach diagonally, and, at the point of incidence, presenting his query, pass on with a glance of impassive impersonality when it was evident that his overtures were futile or worse.

When successful in his forays, he would convey the results of his efforts to his father, who, after getting the garments thus secured in a condition of fictitious newness, displayed them in front of his establishment, marked with prices which, as he explained to those unwary enough to venture within the radius of his personality, brought him as near to nervous prostration as was possible for the parent of such inconsequent offspring.

However, no matter what the rewards of such industry, it must not be imagined that its disabilities did not insist upon due recognition and ugly ravel, and that such shred and fibre did not obtrude their unwelcome appeals for repair upon their central figure.

Shrewd, intelligent, persistent, he soon discovered that the very qualities which made him successful in his calling rendered him obnoxious to those who were unable to harmonize his promise with his condition.

However, like the majority of his countrymen, outside of those who constituted the Manhattan police force and provided the country with justices of the peace, this young man was a philosopher.

He could always provide a silver lining for a cloud as long as it was plausible to do so, and when he had exhausted his genial resources, he looked at facts squarely.

On this basis he decided, finally, that his was a case of “bricks without straw,” enthusiasm minus its basis, an unhappy conclusion which was emphasized by his patient attempts to soften his angularities with the advantages provided by a night school.

Unfortunately, a business man, with an eye to the bizarre, to whom Dennis had presented some of his characteristic enterprises, had put the young Irishman in the way of securing a biography of the Hebrew premier, whom he provided with such an absurd travesty of likeness, and the “ole clo’ merchant” was so impressed by the resolution and dexterity of the celebrated statesman, that he became, from that moment, the prey of a consuming ambition whose direction he could not determine.

He grew positive daily, however, that, in view of these stimulating aspirations, he could no longer pursue his embarrassing avocation.

On the basis, therefore, that the greater the pent the more pronounced the explosion, the young merchant developed a dangerous readiness to embrace the first opportunity that presented herself in the hope that the caress would be returned.

Presently, the determination to exchange his present humiliations for future uncertainties advanced him to the point where he informed his father of his decision, and the latter immediately succumbed to a collapse which was Hebraic in its despair and entirely Celtic in its manifestation.

When this irate parent realized, at last, that this invaluable arm of his business could not be diverted from its purpose, with cruel celerity he cut off his son from all further consideration and forbade him the premises.

With the previous week’s salary in his pocket, which, fortunately, had been undisturbed, Dennis Muldoon, on the day succeeding this unhappy interview with his sire, set out for New York City with his few belongings condensed, with campaigning foresight, in a satchel whose size and appearance would scarcely inspire the confidence man to claim previous acquaintance with its owner in order to investigate its contents later.

In this manner protected from the insinuating blandishments of the “buncoes,” and guided by his native shrewdness, Dennis finally found accommodation for his meager impedimenta in an unassuming lodging-house called The Stag.

This establishment reflected, in a curious way, the demands of its patrons.

Almost the entire first floor was occupied by the glittering details

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