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like to be up against a Harvard boxing champion,” answered Roosevelt. “It’s Wednesday morning. Can you get in touch with him in time for him to come to the room tomorrow night?”
    “This town’s got a pretty good grapevine,” said Eye-Patch.
    “Bully! The sooner we get the crusade under way, the better. Gentlemen, you’re free to go.”
    Eye-Patch began walking toward the end of the cell block, but Baldy hung back for a moment.
    “I don’t figure I owe you nothing, the way you tricked us,” he said to Roosevelt. He lowered his voice. “But watch yourself around him, sir.” He made no attempt to hide the little shudder that ran through him. “I’m not kidding, sir. I ain’t never been scared of nobody or nothing, but I’m scared of him .”
    ***
    Roosevelt went to his squalid Bowery room on Thursday night, laid his hat and a walking stick on a chair, and waited. He’d brought a book with him, in case this Big D character hadn’t gotten the word or chose not to show up, and by midnight he was pretty sure he’d be reading straight through until dawn.
    And then, at 2:30 AM, there was a knock at the door.
    “Come,” said Roosevelt, who was sitting on an oft-repaired wooden chair. He closed the book and put it on the ugly table that held the room’s only lamp.
    The door opened and a tall, skeletally thin man entered. He had wild black hair that seemed to have resisted all efforts to brush or comb it, piercing blue eyes, and very pale skin. He wore an expensively-tailored black suit that had seen better days.
    “I understand you wish to speak to me,” he said, articulating each word precisely.
    “If you’re Big D, I do,” said Roosevelt.
    A smile that Roosevelt thought seemed almost indistinguishable from a sneer briefly crossed the man’s face. “I am the man you seek. But my name is not Big D.”
    “Oh?”
    “They call me that because they are too uneducated to pronounce my real name. But you, Mr. Roosevelt, will have no difficulty with it.”
    “I didn’t give my…ah… representatives permission to reveal my identity.”
    “They didn’t,” was the reply. “But you are a famous and easily-recognized man, sir. I have read many of your books, and seen your photograph in the newspapers.”
    “You still have the advantage of me,” said Roosevelt. “If you are not to be called Big D…”
    “You may call me Demosthenes.”
    “Like the ancient Greek?”
    “Precisely,” said Demosthenes.
    “The Greeks are a swarthy race,” said Roosevelt. “You don’t look Mediterranean.”
    “I have been told that before.”
    “The hair seems right, though.”
    “Are we to discuss my looks or your proposition?” said Demosthenes.
    “My proposition, by all means,” said Roosevelt. He gestured toward a chair. “Have a seat.”
    “I prefer to stand.”
    “As you wish. But I must tell you that I am not intimidated by size.”
    Demosthenes smiled and sat down. “I like you already, Mr. Roosevelt. But from your books I knew I would. You take such pleasure in the slaughter of animals who want only to escape.”
    “I am a hunter and a sportsman, not a slaughterer,” answered Roosevelt severely. “I shoot no animal that does not have a chance to escape.”
    “How inefficient,” said Demosthenes. He cocked his head and read the spine of Roosevelt’s book. “Jane Austen? I should have thought you were beyond a comedy of manners, Mr. Roosevelt.”
    “She has an exquisite felicity of expression which seems to have eluded you,” said Roosevelt.
    “Her felicity of expression is duly noted.” Another cold smile. “It is manners that elude me.”
    “So I’ve noticed. Shall we get down to business?”
    “Certainly,” said Demosthenes. “Which particular criminal are you after?”
    “What makes you think I’m after a criminal?” asked Roosevelt.
    “Do not be obtuse, Mr. Roosevelt,” said Demosthenes. “I move freely among the criminal element. Two lawbreakers have passed the word that