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THE JOURNEY downriver from Cairo had been a real voyage of discovery for Ronnie Le Grand. Not only had it opened up an unknown country to his view, a country rich in interest and one which he never would have seen otherwise, but also it had enabled him to become acquainted with himself. This, in its way, was the most exciting thing that he had ever experienced. His summer of footloose wandering, his association with Jimmy the Lark and their contacts with the hazards and uncertainties of living from hand to mouth had been a liberal education.

Those steamboat passengers he met, for instance, did not consider him a curious biological specimen—a sort of two-headed boy. They were polite, engaging, friendly, and they didn’t ask him trick questions just to discover the depth of his education. On the contrary, they appeared to enjoy his company, which was something not even his most admiring college professors had pretended to do.

Maybe, he reflected, all this was because he no longer sat on a perch like a stuffed owl when he met people. Or perhaps it was due, in part, to the fact that Jim Larkin had taught him how to laugh at a joke without acting as if he had a cracked lip. Certainly something had changed him from a bloodless creature into a person who radiated warmth and enthusiasm and who aroused warmth in other people. Well, that was a faculty worth cultivating. He was glad he had become Ronnie Le Grand and he confessed it to his unwieldy companion one afternoon.

Jim had sat in a dollar-limit poker game most of the previous night and he now squatted on the edge of his bunk tuning his violin. He was still clad in a soiled Canton flannel nightgown.

Jim listened to what his young companion had to say, then acknowledged, “You have changed and I guess it’s for the better; anyhow I like you better all the time. But don’t give me credit for what’s happened. When we first met, you were a sort of Johnny Boston-Baked-Beans. Your head was so full of knowledge it was as square as a dictionary. I saw that you were smart, though. All you needed was to know people as well as things. There’s a difference. You’ll make something of yourself, but don’t take me for a model. That’s one trouble about liking a guy who is older than you are: you are apt to copy him.”

“I might do worse, Jim,” Ronnie said sincerely. “I think you’re great.”

Unexpectedly, but in all seriousness, the other said, “I was great, but—never again! I had my day, I’ll never have another.”

“Why not? What do you mean?”

Jim closed his eyes; dreamily he drew his bow across the strings. “Yeah! I was an honest-to-God big man, the biggest there was.”

After a moment, Ronnie inquired, “Do you mind telling me about it?”

“What’s the use? You wouldn’t believe me.”

“And why not?”

“Because I sometimes don’t believe it myself. And yet it’s true. Well, I was an emperor. . . . Go ahead and laugh.”

“An . . . emperor?”

“That’s what I said, kid.” The speaker nodded indifferently and went on softly playing.

With a smile, the boy told him, “If you were wearing a crown of leaves above a Roman toga, I could guess which one you must have been.”

“Yeah? Which one?”

“Nero.”

Jim lowered his fiddle and eyed the speaker with sudden interest. “Why did you say that?”

“Look in the glass.”

“That certainly is funny,” the man observed. “I’ve read a good deal about him; in fact, I’ve read everything I could find. He was a great guy, Nero. He had jowls like mine and a big belly. He toed out and he played the fiddle. He was a jack of all trades; he could do anything. Well, so can I. Nero Claudius Caesar! My people christened me James Claude Caesar though they never heard of Nero. They’d heard of Rome but they thought it was in Georgia. He was born December 15. So was I. When he was fourteen years old, he put on the toga. I guess it was the same thing as long pants in those days. He was introduced to the Senate. Well, when I was fourteen, my old man took me to the State Capitol and introduced me to the senator from our district. He gave me a job—I mean the senator did.

“The books say Nero started off as a popular favorite and the Romans were crazy about him; that senator thought I was a swell kid too and I got along great with him until he caught me dealing myself four kings. I always was handy with cards.

“Here’s a funny thing and you can figure it out for yourself. Nero’s mother was a hellion and she poisoned her second husband, the Emperor Claudius. Well, my old man died from eating toadstools my mother cooked for him. She said she thought they were mushrooms and maybe she did, but I never liked her and I never went back home. I could tell you a hundred things that happened to me just about like they happened to Nero. They’re all in the books and you can read ’em yourself.”

As the speaker rambled on, reciting a garbled and fanciful account of what he had read, Ronnie realized that Jim was the victim of an odd fixation. He actually believed that in him dwelt the reincarnated soul of the sinister figure whose names he happened to bear. Doubtless the idea was like a grass seed, blown by the wind. It had taken root in his mind. Perhaps Jim’s undeniable likeness to the pictures of that fabled monarch had most to do with his belief.

“It all sounds nutty, doesn’t it?” the big fellow inquired. “But a lot of foreigners just as smart as we are and a lot older believed in such things. I mean that people don’t actually die but sort of move out of one house and into another. Maybe there’s something to it; maybe certain personalities are so powerful that they live on and on, indefinitely. Nero had his faults, I guess. All the same, he was a giant every way you take him. And you can’t believe all the things you read. Why, those historians themselves could barely read and write and they never actually met him face to face. Well, I’ve got him in here, or what’s left of him.” Larkin patted his paunch. “His name was Nero but I spell it with an H.”

Ronnie did not argue with his friend; instead he wondered if this queer belief didn’t serve to ease the bitterness of some deep frustration. In any event, it was a harmless idea and it made Jim none the less likable. It was mighty nice to enjoy the respect and the affection of an older person, especially one who was a real friend, who looked after you with the solicitude of a father. Certainly it wasn’t every tenderfoot who could claim the friendship and patronage of a Roman emperor.

It was gratifying, too, to enjoy the respect and interest of a person like Madame Rondo. It had not taken Ronnie long to learn that he had indeed made a favorable impression upon her.

She was a frequent and favored patron of the Palace and soon after McPhee put him on the payroll Ronnie noticed that she was there almost every night, watching him closely, curiously. McPhee had allowed him to deal blackjack, a job in which he worked under the watchful eye of a lookout. Since it was a rule of the game that the dealer must “stand” on seventeen, Ronnie’s work was largely routine. All the same, it taught him to handle chips, to “pay and take” and in other ways to perfect his technique; likewise it enabled him to meet certain patrons of the establishment.

Late one night as he came off shift he encountered Madame Rondo near the entrance to the restaurant. Unexpectedly she spoke to him,

“Won’t you join me in a bite of supper?”

Ronnie thanked her and accepted the invitation. They entered the cafe, then, when they were seated, she asked, “How are you getting along upstairs?”

“Pretty well, I think. Anyhow I’m having fun.”

“Fun?” She raised her dark brows inquiringly. “Ever work in a gambling place before?”

He shook his head. “It’s all new. I suppose that’s why it’s so fascinating.”

“Gambling is a pretty serious business to most people. Larkin says you have a real talent for cards, that you’re a genius.” To the head waiter who had seated her, she said casually, “Bring me a Delta Punch.”

“I’m sorry, Madame,” the latter apologized. “This is Tony’s night off.”

“So it is,” the woman said. “Then, bring me a Sazerac.” She looked inquiringly at Ronnie.

With a smile, he asked, “May I take a lemonade?”

“Anything you want, of course.” Madame Angela regarded him with that curious, luminous stare which had so often made him uncomfortable. “So you don’t drink. Well, I know you eat, so let me order for both of us. I know this place better than you do.” When she had given her directions and the waiter had gone, she resumed, “Where did you learn to play cards, Ronnie?”

“I don’t know. Some things come naturally; I seem to be born With the knack. Jim Larkin taught me a great deal.”

“He says you went to college. How did you happen to take up with him?”

“We met. We liked each other. I was looking around; it was my chance to see the world. Tell me, what is a Delta Punch and a Sazerac?”

“Any bartender can tell you all about a Sazerac cocktail. Tony is the only man in New Orleans who can tell you what’s in a Delta. I gave him the secret.”

“Is it really a secret?”

“A deep One. It still supplies me with my pin money, as I call it.” Madame glanced downward at the jewels on her ample bosom. “Delta bought most of this stuff. Tony did me a favor so I set him up in business. He brings his own ingredients when he comes to work and he takes them home with him when he quits. It has made him so rich he can play an “Ave Maria” on his own doorbells. He’s quite a property owner, and Delta did it.”

“I’d think a formula, a recipe for a mixed drink, could easily be stolen,” Ronnie observed.

“Oh, it is possible. But not here, not in this part of the country. There are some people it doesn’t pay to cheat in New Orleans and I’m one of them. Though I’m only a poor widow who has to pinch her pennies.” Madame Rondo smiled faintly. “No, my family never had any trouble keeping what they owned. Tony came from Sicily and I guess the Mafia taught him that it pays to play square with his backers. Did you ever hear of the Mafia?”

“Oh, yes, and I’ve read about the trouble here in New Orleans. Jim pointed out the place on Canal Street where the Committee of One Thousand met that day of the big riot and where the citizens started their march on the Parish Prison. That was a famous incident. It assumed international importance.”

“You know everything, don’t you?”

Ronnie confessed that he did indeed know a little about a good many things. “Yes, I’ve read a million books, it seems to me, all full of interesting but useless stuff. That’s why I’m having such a time for myself here in New Orleans.”

“That famous riot, as you call it, was the best thing that ever happened to this city,” Madame Rondo observed. Her face assumed a vindictive expression. “Those Sicilian lowdowns had things pretty much their own way. Now they do what they’re told and public affairs are in the hands of people who know how to direct them. But I’m doing all the talking. Tell me about yourself, young man. You’re the most unusual lad I ever knew. I can’t figure you out.”

Ronnie laughed. “And here I’ve been telling myself that you’re the most extraordinary woman I ever saw.”

“Hm-m! Maybe it’s time we really got acquainted.”

The waiter reappeared with the drinks and Madame tasted hers critically. Later, when the food arrived, she eyed her companion with disconcerting curiosity. Evidently he baffled her as completely as she mystified him but, while he felt only curiosity, she appeared to be fascinated. Her eyes remained fixed upon him; she listened with attention to all he said. It was flattering and Ronnie felt that he must possess unusual depths. Madame made no great effort to be charming or even agreeable; she seemed wholly indifferent to her effect upon him. She was a strange person. He couldn’t decide whether or not he liked her but certainly she was worth knowing. He wondered what the Palace employees would have to say about his dining with Madame Angela Rondo.

In the days that followed, Ronnie told himself that success was bound to come to one who walked with a Roman emperor on the one hand and a Madame Rondo on the other.

It was not long before McPhee’s Palace began to profit as greatly by the popularity of Ronnie Le Grand. It became known that McPhee had a youthful prodigy in his place, a lad in his teens whose skill with cards might rank him with that native-born wizard of chess, Paul Morphy. Morphy, too, had been a boy wonder and a master of his chosen game at an early age. This Le Grand youngster had a similar talent and it was a privilege to play with him, even if one lost. He was modest and unassuming and agreeable, a thorough young gentleman. He neither drank nor smoked. His manners were polished and he could talk well on any subject. Many experienced players, curious to meet this young mystery man, went to the Palace.

Draw poker, in those days unpolluted by shocking and irreverent variations in the rules laid down by Hoyle, was the most popular game of chance in New Orleans. It was considered a real test of card sense; it called for observation, self-control, keen judgment, and an accurate appraisal of human behavior. Good players deduced as much from the expressions and actions of their opponents as they did from scanning their own cards. Young Le Grand seemed to possess these qualifications, plus a subtle sixth sense. With all this, he had a frank and boyish enthusiasm for his calling, he never quarreled with his luck and for him every session at the tables was an exhilarating adventure.

So prosperity came to him and he shared it with the Lark.