“Wot are you?” asked the man at the door. “Youse needn’t give your real name,” he explained politely. “But you’ve got to give something if youse are trying for a prize, see?”

“I’m the Black Knight,” said Hefty in a hoarse voice, “the Marquis de Newveal; and when it comes to scrappin’ wid der perlice, I’m de best in der business.”

This last statement was entirely impromptu, and inspired by the presence of Policeman M’Cluire, who, with several others, had been detailed to keep order. M’Cluire took this challenge calmly, and looked down and smiled at Hefty’s feet.

“He looks like a stove on two legs,” he said to the crowd. The crowd, as a matter of policy, laughed.

“You’ll look like a fool standing on his head in a snow-bank if you talk impudent to me,” said Hefty epigrammatically, from behind the barrier of his iron mask. What might have happened next did not happen, because at that moment the music sounded for the grand march, and Hefty and the policeman were swept apart by the crowd of Indians, Mexicans, courtiers, negro minstrels, and clowns. Hefty stamped across the waxed floor about as lightly as a safe could do it if a safe could walk. He found Miss Casey after the march and disclosed his identity. She promised not to tell, and was plainly delighted and flattered at being seen with the distinct sensation of the ball. “Say, Hefty,” she said, “they just ain’t in it with you. You’ll take the two prizes sure. How do I look?”

“Out o’ sight,” said Hefty. “Never saw you lookin’ better.”

“That’s good,” said Miss Casey simply, and with a sigh of satisfaction.

Hefty was undoubtedly a great success. The men came around him and pawed him, and felt the dents in the armour, and tried the weight of it by holding up one of his arms, and handled him generally as though he were a freak in a museum. “Let ’em alone,” said Hefty to Miss Casey; “I’m not saying a word. Let the judges get on to the sensation I’m a-makin’, and I’ll walk off with the prizes. The crowd is wid me sure.”

At midnight the judges pounded on a table for order, and announced that after much debate they gave the first prize to Miss Lizzie Cannon, of Hester Street, for “having the most handsomest costume on the floor, that of Columbia.” The fact that Mr. “Buck” Masters, who was one of the judges, and who was engaged to Miss Cannon, had said that he would pound things out of the other judges if they gave the prize elsewhere was not known, but the decision met with as general satisfaction as could well be expected.

“The second prize,” said the judges, “goes to the gent calling himself the Black Knight—him in the iron leggings—and the other prize for the most original costume goes to him too.” Half the crowd cheered at this and only one man hissed. Hefty, filled with joy and with the anticipation of the elegance the ice- pitcher would lend to his flat when he married Miss Casey, and how conveniently he could fill it, turned on this gentleman and told him that only geese hissed.

The gentleman, who had spent much time on his costume, and who had been assured by each judge on each occasion that evening when he had treated him to beer that he would get the prize, told Hefty to go lie down. It has never been explained just what horrible insult lies back of this advice, but it is a very dangerous thing to tell a gentleman to do. Hefty lifted one foot heavily and bore down on the disappointed masker like an ironclad in a heavy sea. But before he could reach him, Policeman M‘Cluire, mindful of the insult put upon him by this stranger, sprang between them and said, “Here now, no scrapping here; get out of this,” and shoved Hefty back with his hand. Hefty uttered a mighty howl of wrath and long-cherished anger, and lurched forward, but before he could reach his old-time enemy three policemen had him around the arms and by the leg, and he was as effectually stopped as though he had been chained to the floor.

“Let go o’ me!” said Hefty wildly. “You’re smotherin’ me. Give me a fair chance at him.”