When near the corner of West Street I turned around just in time to see
a ragged boy pick up a pocket-book.

As the afoursaid boy started to run off, a well dressed lookin' man
ketched him by the cote coller.

"What in thunder are you about?" says the boy.

"That pocket-book belongs to this old gentleman," said the man, pintin'
to me. "I saw him drop it."

"No it don't, nether," said the boy, tryin' to break away, "and I want
yer to let go my cote coller."

The infatuated youth then tried his level best to jerk away, while his
capturer yanked and cuffed him, ontil the boy sot up a cryin'.

I notissed as the youth turned around that he partly opened the wallet,
which was chock full of greenbax.

A thought suddenly struck me. That 'ere boy looked as if he was depraved
enuff to steel the shoe-strings off'n the end of a Chinaman's cue, so
the Monongohalian's hair woulden't stay braided.

Thinks I, if the young raskel should keep that pocket-book, like as not
he mite buy a fashinable soot of close and enter on a new career of
crime, and finally fetch up as a ward polertician.

I must confess, that as I beheld that wallet full of bills, my mouth did
water rather freely, and I made up my mind, if wuss come to wusser, I