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T HE ODD FIGURE WOBBLED down West 137th Street, a man with long black hair, a swollen nose with burst veins, a shabby frock coat and filthy gaiters, and a partially crushed stovepipe hat perched on his head as the final touch. He trailed a distinct smell of whisky behind him. He approached the corner of Riverside Drive, passing by the somber Beaux Arts mansion that dominated the block, turned the corner, and continued north, humming tunelessly. Veering diagonally across the drive, he jauntily staggered down into newly built Riverside Park, converted from a railyard only a few years before and still not finished. Here, he spied two other malingerers sitting on a stack of granite blocks not far from the tracks of the Hudson Railway.

“A good evening to you, fellow bindlestiffs!” he cried, pulling out a quart bottle and waving it like a white flag before taking a good pull. The two tramps, who had been guardedly watching his approach, softened their expressions.

“Come join us, friend,” said one.

The tramp seated himself and offered the two others his bottle. “Old Overholt,” he cried. “Not as aged as one might like—perhaps Young Overholt would be a more appropriate name. Ha ha ha! But never mind: fine stuff, fine stuff!”

One took it, swigged, and passed it on. The newly arrived tramp stuck out his hand, fingers protruding from dirty fingerless gloves. “Stovepipe’s my moniker.”

The two tramps introduced themselves as Galloon and Howitzer.

“Help yourselves to more refreshment,” said Stovepipe, courteously refusing to accept the bottle reluctantly passed back to him. This considerably cheered the tramps, who took several more enthusiastic pulls each.

“Thank you, friend,” said one, wiping his mouth. “That’s some good coffin varnish.”

Stovepipe issued a cracked laugh and gave the man a slap on the back. “Yes sir! ”

The bottle went around again, the two tramps indulging themselves even more liberally than before.

“Haven’t seen you in these parts,” said Galloon.

“Just arrived,” Stovepipe said. “Looking for work.”

“What kind of work?”

“As little as possible.”

This got a round of laughs, and the newcomer continued. “Stableman, when I have to be. Just got here from old Boston. I’m a little light on the spondulix at the moment, and I heard the city’s a-growing, lots of jobs.”

Galloon spat. “Not for us.”

Stovepipe waved his hand. “With all the rich people around here? Take that mansion up there. They must have at least a coach and four.”

Galloon shook his head, taking another pull. “Skinflints.”

“You seen what kind of coach they drive? Asking for professional reasons, you understand.”

“Oh, a big old varnished thing, four-in-hand, like you said. Comes and goes at all times of the night and day.”

“Anything else?”

“A wagon, pulled by a Belgian.”

“A four-in-hand and a Belgian? My word. Where do they keep the horses?”

“In the mews right around back of the house.”

“Now that’s some useful information!” Stovepipe scratched thoughtfully at his stubbly chin. “What kind of wagon did you say?”

“A farm wagon, just a horse and cart. I saw it not but a few days back, headed out around midnight.”

“A few days back? You mean, Monday?”

The tramp frowned. “Not sure I recollect.” He shrugged. “Monday sounds right. Then again, it might have been Sunday.”

“Which way did it go?”

“North.”

“Who was driving it?”

“He was all mufflered up on account of the cold, black scarf and greatcoat, but I think it was the master of the house himself—he’s a right tall feller.” He hesitated. “Why so interested? You some kind of second-story man?”

“Good gracious, no! My interest, sir, is for the very simple reason that they couldn’t find a better drayman than yours truly! Why would the master be driving some old farm wagon if he had a decent wagoner? Now, if he had a man like me —”

“I wouldn’t knock on that door if my life depended on it—and that’s a bottom fact.”

“What do you mean?”

“Thems are some rum coves lounging around that place, comings and goings at night—all sorts of doings. It’s a strange house with queer folk, and you’d do better to toughen your knuckles on doors farther up.”

“Well, you’ve scoured the place, and I haven’t… but crikey, it’s the biggest mansion on the whole stretch! More horses, more money. And with a separate stables, a man can likely get a fair amount of shut-eye in without being overly troubled.”

Galloon shook his head.

“What was it carrying?”

“A load of hay, I believe.”

“Out of the city? For dunnage?”

Galloon shrugged. “It was dark, and they was moving fast. If I were you I’d pack away that curiosity—it’s like to get you into deep tar.”

“I thankee for the advice, Mr. Galloon, sir, and I leave you with the bottle as a parting gift. Now, good night. I had better freshen up my wind afore I go a-knocking on doors.”

The tramp rose and headed north along Riverside Drive, eyes scanning the ground. In short order, his vigilance was rewarded with two items—crumpled pieces of damp hay and a single round pellet, which he recognized as the dung of a sheep.