When H.  Ferguson Hedges, millionaire promoter,
investor and man-about-New-York, turned his thoughts
upon matters convivial, and word of it went "down the
line," bouncers took a precautionary turn at the Indian
clubs, waiters put ironstone china on his favourite tables,
cab drivers crowded close to the curbstone in front of
all-night cafés, and careful cashiers in his regular haunts
charged up a few bottles to his account by way of preface
and introduction. 

As a money power a one-millionaire is of small account
in a city where the man who cuts your slice of beef behind
the free-lunch counter rides to work in his own automobile.
But Hedges spent his money as lavishly, loudly and
showily as though he were only a clerk squandering a
week's wages.  And, after all, the bartender takes no
interest in your reserve fund.  He would rather look you
up on his cash register than in Bradstreet.