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 going. You had better go home and sleep it off. Goodnight.”

At this I was moved by a sudden fear for Kerner to a softer and more pleading mood. I leaned against the gray man’s sleeve and besought him:

“Good Mr. Fool-Killer, please don’t kill little Kerner. Why can’t you go back South and kill Congressmen and clay-eaters and let us alone? Why don’t you go up on Fifth Avenue and kill millionaires that keep their money locked up and won’t let young fools marry because one of ’em lives on the wrong street? Come and have a drink, Jesse. Will you never get on to your job?”

“Do you know this girl that your friend has made himself a fool about?” asked the Fool-Killer.

“I have the honor,” said I, “and that’s why I called Kerner a fool. He is a fool because he has waited so long before marrying her. He is a fool because he has been waiting in the hopes of getting the consent of some absurd two-million-dollar-fool parent or something of the sort.”

“Maybe,” said the Fool-Killer—“maybe I—I might have looked at it differently. Would you mind going back to the restaurant and bringing your friend Kerner here?”

“Oh, what’s the use, Jesse,” I yawned. “He can’t see you. He didn’t know you were talking to him at the table. You are a fictitious character, you know.”