bite at anything. The brains of most of 'em commute. The wiser they are
in intelligence the less perception of cognizance they have. Why, didn't
a man the other day sell J. P. Morgan an oil portrait of Rockefeller,
Jr., for Andrea del Sarto's celebrated painting of the young Saint John!

"You see that bundle of printed stuff in the corner, Billy? That's gold
mining stock. I started out one day to sell that, but I quit it in two
hours. Why? Got arrested for blocking the street. People fought to buy
it. I sold the policeman a block of it on the way to the station-house,
and then I took it off the market. I don't want people to give me their
money. I want some little consideration connected with the transaction
to keep my pride from being hurt. I want 'em to guess the missing letter
in Chic--go, or draw to a pair of nines before they pay me a cent of
money.

"Now there's another little scheme that worked so easy I had to quit
it. You see that bottle of blue ink on the table? I tattooed an anchor
on the back of my hand and went to a bank and told 'em I was Admiral
Dewey's nephew. They offered to cash my draft on him for a thousand, but
I didn't know my uncle's first name. It shows, though, what an easy town
it is. As for burglars, they won't go in a house now unless there's a
hot supper ready and a few college students to wait on 'em. They're
slugging citizens all over the upper part of the city and I guess,
taking the town from end to end, it's a plain case of assault and
Battery."

"Monty," says I, when Silver had slacked, up, "you may have Manhattan
correctly discriminated in your perorative, but I doubt it. I've only
been in town two hours, but it don't dawn upon me that it's ours with a
cherry in it. There ain't enough rus in urbe about it to suit me. I'd be