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he your bruder now?” asked the lady.

      “No, he is not, unfortunately for me. His name is–”

      Orlando coughed.

      “Philip Brent,” suggested our hero.

      “Just so—Philip Brent.”

      “I am glad to see Mr. Prent,” said the landlady.

      “And is he an actor like you, Signor Orlando?”

      “Not yet. We don’t know what may happen. But he comes on business, Mrs. Schlessinger. He wants a room.”

      The landlady brightened up. She had two rooms vacant, and a new lodger was a godsend.

      “I vill show Mr. Prent what rooms I haf,” she said. “Come up-stairs, Mr. Prent.”

      The good woman toiled up the staircase panting, for she was asthmatic, and Phil followed. The interior of the house was as dingy as the exterior, and it was quite dark on the second landing.

      She threw open the door of a back room, which, being lower than the hall, was reached by a step.

      “There!” said she, pointing to the faded carpet, rumpled bed, and cheap pine bureau, with the little six-by-ten looking-glass surmounting it. “This is a peautiful room for a single gentleman, or even for a man and his wife.”

      “My friend, Mr. Brent, is not married,” said Signor Orlando waggishly.

      Phil laughed.

      “You will have your shoke, Signor Orlando,” said Mrs. Schlessinger.

      “What is the price of this room?” asked Phil.

      “Three dollars a week, Mr. Prent, I ought to have four, but since you are a steady young gentleman–”

      “How does she know that?” Phil wondered.

      “Since you are a steady young gentleman, and a friend of Signor Orlando, I will not ask you full price.”

      “That is more than I can afford to pay,” said Phil, shaking his head.

      “I think you had better show Mr. Brent the hall bedroom over mine,” suggested the signor.

      Mrs. Schlessinger toiled up another staircase, the two new acquaintances following her. She threw open the door of one of those depressing cells known in New York as a hall bedroom. It was about five feet wide and eight feet long, and was nearly filled up by a cheap bedstead, covered by a bed about two inches thick, and surmounted at the head by a consumptive-looking pillow. The paper was torn from the walls in places. There was one rickety chair, and a wash-stand which bore marks of extreme antiquity.

      “This is a very neat room for a single gentleman,” remarked Mrs. Schlessinger.

      Phil’s spirits fell as he surveyed what was to be his future home. It was a sad contrast to his neat, comfortable room at home.

      “Is this room like yours, Signor Orlando?” he asked faintly.

      “As like as two peas,” answered Orlando.

      “Would you recommend me to take it?”

      “You couldn’t do better.”

      How could the signor answer otherwise in presence of a landlady to whom he owed two weeks’ rent?

      “Then,” said Phil, with a secret shudder, “I’ll take it if the rent is satisfactory.”

      “A dollar and a quarter a week,” said Mrs. Schlessinger promptly.

      “I’ll take it for a week.”

      “You won’t mind paying in advance?” suggested the landlady. “I pay my own rent in advance.”

      Phil’s answer was to draw a dollar and a quarter from his purse and pass it to his landlady.

      “I’ll take possession now,” said our hero. “Can I have some water to wash my face?”

      Mrs. Schlessinger was evidently surprised that any one should want to wash in the middle of the day, but made no objections.

      When Phil had washed his face and hands, he went out with Signor Orlando to dine at a restaurant on the Bowery.

      CHAPTER VII

      BOWERMAN’S VARIETIES

      The restaurant to which he was taken by Signor Orlando was thronged with patrons, for it was one o’clock. On the whole, they did not appear to belong to the highest social rank, though they were doubtless respectable. The table-cloths were generally soiled, and the waiters had a greasy look. Phil said nothing, but he did not feel quite so hungry as before he entered.

      The signor found two places at one of the tables, and they sat down. Phil examined a greasy bill of fare and found that he could obtain a plate of meat for ten cents. This included bread and butter, and a dish of mashed potato. A cup of tea would be five cents additional.

      “I can afford fifteen cents for a meal,” he thought, and called for a plate of roast beef.

      “Corn beef and cabbage for me,” said the signor.

      “It’s very filling,” he remarked aside to Phil.

      “They won’t give you but a mouthful of beef.”

      So it proved, but the quality was such that Phil did not care for more. He ordered a piece of apple pie afterward feeling still hungry.

      “I see you’re bound to have a square meal,” said the signor.

      After Phil had had it, he was bound to confess that he did not feel uncomfortably full. Yet he had spent twice as much as the signor, who dispensed with the tea and pie as superfluous luxuries.

      In the evening Signor Orlando bent his steps toward Bowerman’s Varieties.

      “I hope in a day or two to get a complimentary ticket for you, Mr. Brent,” he said.

      “How much is the ticket?” asked Phil.

      “Fifteen cents. Best reserved seats twenty-five cents.’

      “I believe I will be extravagant for once,” said Phil, “and go at my own expense.”

      “Good!” said the signor huskily. “You’ll feel repaid I’ll be bound. Bowerman always gives the public their money’s worth. The performance begins at eight o’clock and won’t be out until half-past eleven.”

      “Less than five cents an hour,” commented Phil.

      “What a splendid head you’ve got!” said Signor Orlando admiringly. “I couldn’t have worked that up. Figures ain’t my province.”

      It seemed to Phil rather a slender cause for compliment, but he said nothing, since it seemed clear that the computation was beyond his companion’s ability.

      As to the performance, it was not refined, nor was the talent employed first-class. Still Phil enjoyed himself after a fashion. He had never had it in his power to attend many amusements, and this was new to him. He naturally looked with interest for the appearance of his new friend and fellow-lodger.

      Signor Orlando appeared, dressed in gorgeous array, sang a song which did credit to the loudness of his voice rather than its quality, and ended by a noisy clog-dance which elicited much applause from the boys in the gallery, who shared the evening’s entertainment for the moderate sum of ten cents.

      The signor was called back to the stage. He bowed his thanks and gave another dance. Then he was permitted to retire. As this finished his part of the entertainment he afterward came around in citizen’s dress, and took a seat in the auditorium beside Phil.

      “How did you like me, Mr. Brent?” he asked complacently.

      “I thought you did well, Signor Orlando. You were much applauded.”

      “Yes, the audience is very loyal,” said the proud performer.

      Two half-grown boys heard Phil pronounce the name of his companion, and they gazed awe-stricken at the famous man.

      “That’s

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