Surely there is no pastime more diverting than that of , , with persons of wealth and station. Where else but in those circles can one see life in its , crude state unhampered by the conventions that the in a lower sphere?  
There was a certain Caliph of Bagdad who was accustomed to go down among the poor and lowly for the obtained from the relation of their tales and histories. Is it not strange that the and poverty-stricken have not availed themselves of the pleasure they might by donning diamonds and silks and playing Caliph among the haunts of the upper world?
 
There was one who saw the possibilities of thus turning the tables on Haroun al Raschid. His name was Corny Brannigan, and he was a truck driver for a Canal Street importing firm. And if you read further you will learn how he turned upper Broadway into Bagdad and learned something about himself that he did not know before.
 
Many people would have called Corny a snob—preferably by means of a telephone. His chief interest in life, his chosen amusement, and his sole diversion after working hours, was to place himself in juxtaposition—since he could not hope to mingle—with people of fashion and means.
 
Every evening after Corny had put up his team and dined at a lunch-counter that made a , he would clothe himself in evening raiment as correct as any you will see in the palm rooms. Then he would betake himself to that ravishing, radiant roadway to Thespis, Thais, and Bacchus.
 
For a time he would stroll about the lobbies of the best hotels, his soul steeped in blissful content. Beautiful women, cooing like doves, but feathered like birds of Paradise, him with their robes as they passed. Courtly gentlemen attended them, and assiduous. And Corny's heart within him like Sir Lancelot's, for the mirror to him as he passed and said: "Corny, lad, there's not a guy among 'em that looks a bit the sweller than yerself. And you drivin' of a truck and them swearin' off their taxes and playin' the red in art galleries with the best in the land!"
 
And the mirrors spake the truth. Mr. Corny Brannigan had acquired the outward polish, if nothing more. Long and keen observation of polite society had gained for him its manner, its genteel air, and—most difficult of acquirement—its and ease.
 
Now and then in the hotels Corny had managed conversation and temporary acquaintance with substantial, if not , guests. With many of these he had exchanged cards, and the ones he received he carefully treasured for his own use later. Leaving the hotel lobbies, Corny would stroll about, lingering at the theatre entrance, dropping into the fashionable restaurants as if seeking some friend. He rarely patronized any of these places; he was no bee come to suck honey, but a butterfly flashing his wings among the flowers whose calyces held no sweets for him. His wages were not large enough to furnish him with more than the outside of the gentleman. To have been one of the beings he so cunningly imitated, Corny Brannigan would have given his right hand.
 
One night Corny had an adventure. After absorbing the delights of an hour's lounging in the principal hotels along Broadway, he passed up into the stronghold of Thespis. Cab drivers hailed him as a likely fare, to his prideful content. eyes were turned upon him as a hopeful source of and the , ascendant globules of effervescence. These and unconscious compliments Corny swallowed as manna, and hoped Bill, the off horse, would be less in the left forefoot in the morning.
 
Beneath a cluster of globes of electric light Corny paused to admire the sheen of his low-cut patent leather shoes. The building occupying the angle was a café. Out of this came a couple, a lady in a white, cobwebby evening gown, with a lace wrap like a wreath of mist thrown over it, and a man, tall, faultless, assured—too assured. They moved to the edge of the sidewalk and halted. Corny's eye, ever alert for "pointers" in ""............