stands.

"This New Yorker had made his money keeping a cigar store in Beekman
street, and he hadn't been above Fourteenth street in ten years.
Moreover, he had whiskers, and the time had gone by when a true sport
will do anything to a man with whiskers. No grafter except a boy who
is soliciting subscribers to an illustrated weekly to win the prize
air rifle, or a widow, would have the heart to tamper with the man
behind with the razor. He was a typical city Reub--I'd bet the man
hadn't been out of sight of a skyscraper in twenty-five years.

"Well, presently this metropolitan backwoodsman pulls out a roll of
bills with an old blue sleeve elastic fitting tight around it and
opens it up.

"'There's $5,000, Mr. Peters,' says he, shoving it over the table
to me, 'saved during my fifteen years of business. Put that in your
pocket and keep it for me, Mr. Peters. I'm glad to meet you gentlemen
from the West, and I may take a drop too much. I want you to take care
of my money for me. Now, let's have another beer.'


[Illustration: "'I want you to take care of my money for me.'"]


"'You'd better keep this yourself,' says I. 'We are strangers to
you, and you can't trust everybody you meet. Put your roll back in
your pocket,' says I. 'And you'd better run along home before some
farm-hand from the Kaw River bottoms strolls in here and sells you
a copper mine.'