The St. Charles Herald

Men Who Engage in Ways That are Dark Sometimes Get the Worst of It.

A short man with a round face the color of a campaign-badge, and a nose which glistened and shone as if it had been varnished, staggered into a Broadway bar-room, one day last week, and slouched over to the lunch-counter, where the well-dressed customers readily made all the space for him that he desired. After satisfying an appetite that was comprehensive enough to cover an entire fashionable boarding-house, he sauntered over to the bar.

"Gimme a little brandy (hic) and a touch of ginger-ale," he remarked to the bar-keeper.

"Forty cents, please," responded that individual.

"Forty cents," replied the visitor: "is (hic) a sum of money. I asked for a drink. If I (hic) called for money, I would (hic) go to a bank."

"You had better go to a bank, then, for your drink," responded the bar-keeper curtly, as he turned to wait on another customer.

After waiting a few minutes in thirsty silence, the short man again renewed his request.

"As I told you," replied the drink-mixer, annoyed at his persistence: "you can't have a drink here unless you pay for it in advance."

"Oh, that's it (hic), is it? You won't trust me for a drink. Well, will you take (hic) this for collateral?" and he laid an old-fashioned watch on the counter whose color was the shade of old brass.

"No, sir. I won't take that. This ain't no junk-shop, and if you don't get out of here you won't want a drink for the next six months!"

"Hold on," replied the short man, "don't (hic) get excited. That watch is a family (hic) keepsake. It was given to my (hic) grandfather by the Emperor Napoleon. It's pure silver."

"Pure brass, you mean. Come, get out!"

"Let go my coat (hic). I'll leave it to any gentleman (hic) present if it ain't silver."

"What's the matter?" interrupted a quiet man who had been a silent observer of the controversy.

"Why, this bum," responded the bar-keeper, "says this brass turnip is silver, and wants me to stand him a drink on it."

"Let me look at it."

The watch was handed over and the quiet man, after a brief inspection, returned it with a smile of contempt.

"I'll tell you (hic) what I'll do," interposed the tramp: "I'll bet you a hundred dollars it's silver."

"Take your bet. Put up your money," returned the quiet man, quickly.

The bar-keeper by this time had let go his hold on the short man's sleeve, and the rest of the customers had gathered closely around the pair. The tramp dove into his ragged pocket and pulled out two fifty-dollar notes, which were promptly placed in the bar-keeper's hands. The silent man also laid a hundred-dollar bill on the counter, and a man was sent out for a jeweler. In a few minutes he returned with the workman, and the watch was handed to him for inspection. He looked at the case, then filed through the surface, and applied a drop of acid to the exposed metal. In a half-a-minute he returned it to the bar-keeper and remarked that it was solid silver, heavily plated with brass.

Five minutes later a short man with a red nose slouched into a cross-street gin-mill and sat down beside a tall, red-haired, ministerial-appearing man.

"Well, Jimmy," inquired the second man: "what luck?"

"I worked the watch-racket for a hundred."

"Where's the booty?" laconically inquired the other.

"Here," and he pulled out the bill he had won.

"Well," remarked the red-haired man, with deep disgust: "you're a nice man to belong to the profession, you are."

"Why?" gasped the short man: "What's the matter with me?"

"There's nothing the matter with you except you're an idiot."

"Why?"

"The bill is counterfeit."

It was.—Puck.