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 of two things—a slungshot or a letter of introduction. The town has been stocked so full of carp that the game fish are all gone. If you spread a net here, do you catch legitimate suckers in it, such as the Lord intended to be caught—fresh guys who know it all, sports with a little coin and the nerve to play another man’s game, street crowds out for the fun of dropping a dollar or two and village smarties who know just where the little pea is? No, sir,’ says I. ‘What the grafters live on here is widows and orphans, and foreigners who save up a bag of money and hand it out over the first counter they see with an iron railing to it, and factory girls and little shopkeepers that never leave the block they do business on. That’s what they call suckers here. They’re nothing but canned sardines, and all the bait you need to catch ’em is a pocketknife and a soda cracker.

“‘Now, this cigar man,’ I went on, ‘is one of the types. He’s lived twenty years on one street without learning as much as you would in getting a onceover shave from a lockjawed barber in a Kansas crossroads town. But he’s a New Yorker, and he’ll brag about that all the time when he isn’t picking up live wires or getting in front of street cars or paying out money to wire-tappers or standing under a safe that’s being hoisted into a sky-scraper. When a New 120