oursaid 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
would not allow too much _temptashun_ to get in that boy's way. The man
turned to me and says:

"Stranger, this is your pocket-book, for I'le swear I saw you drop it."

What could a poor helpless old man like me do in euch a case, Mister
PUNCHINELLO? That man was willin' to sware that I dropped it, and I
larnt enuff about law, when I was Gustise of the Peece, to know I
coulden't swear I diden't drop it, and any court would decide agin me;
at the same time my hands itched to get holt of the well filled wallet.

I trembled all over for fear a policeman, who was standin' on the
opposite corner, mite come over and stick in his lip.

But no! like the wooden injuns before cigar stores, armed with a
tommyhawk and scalpin' knife, these city petroleums, bein' rather
slippery chaps, hain't half so savage as they look.

When the boy heerd the man say I owned the pocket-book he caved in, and
began to blubber. Said he, whimperin':

"Well--I--want--a--re--ward--for--findin' the--pocket-bo--hoo--ok."

The well dressed individual, still holdin' onto the boy, then said to
me:

"My friend, I'me a merchant, doin' bizziness on Broadway, at 4-11-44.
You've had a narrer escape from losin' your pocket-book. Give this rash
youth $50, to encourage him in bein' honest in the futer, and a glorious
reward awaits you. Look at me, sir!" s