 | Eli Perkins (at large) |  |
THE SHREWD MAN.
Mr. Andrew V. Stout, the President
of the Shoe and Leather Bank,
is a shrewd man—not, as Joey Bagstock
would say, “a dev'lish sly
man,” but a keen, shrewd financier
and business man.
A few mornings since, when Mr.
Stout was coming down in the
Broadway cars, he sat in such confidential
proximity to a sympathizing
pickpocket that the latter was
tempted into the acceptance of Mr. Stout's pocket-book,
containing valuable papers and $150 in greenbacks.
Then the pickpocket said good morning to
Mr. Stout, and left. On arriving at the bank, Mr.
Stout discovered his loss. He was astonished that he,
a shrewd old New Yorker, should have his pocket
picked.
“Pshaw!” he said to his secretary, “no man could
ever pick my pocket, I am too smart for that. No, sir.
I should just like to see any one pick my pocket, I
should!”
Then Mr. Stout's lip curled in contemptuous scorn
at the bare idea of such a silly improbability.
But the pocket-book, with the money and valuable
papers, was gone, and the next day Mr. Stout advertised
in the Herald. He said if the person who took
his pocket-book would return the papers, he would give
him the money and $25 besides.
The next morning he got a confidential note from a
party who said a friend of his had the pocket-book
all safe, and that he would call at the bank the next
day to arrange the matter.
“I wonder if this man really will call?” mused
the banker as he wiped his eye-glasses and cut off
a basketful of coupons. “I wonder if he will be
such a darned fool as that? But then you can't expect
common men to be as shrewd as bank presidents.”
But sure enough the next day the man was at his
post.
“Well, what about the pocket-book?” asked Mr.
Stout.
“Oh, it's all safe, Mr. Stout, and if you'll just go
with me a few blocks I'll show you the party who has
your pocket-book, with all the memoranda too. It's all
safe, Mr. Stout. Come!”
The stranger had such an honest look that the
banker, who always prides himself on his knowledge of
men, “took stock in him” at once.
“All right, my good man, let me get some money
to pay you for your trouble, and I'll be with you,”
said Mr. Stout, looking at his four-hundred-dollar
watch.
In a few moments they started off together—Mr.
where the thief or finder was supposed to be.
“Now, you just wait outside
in the front room a moment,
Mr. Stout, and I'll go into the
back room and see the man
who has the money and valuable
papers,” said the good
man as he went into the back
room.
In a moment Mr. Stout's
friend returned with the message
that his friend wouldn't
give up the valuable papers
in the pocket-book for $25. “He wants $50 now, sir.”
“But I only advertised to give $25 for the papers,”
said Mr. Stout, with an eye to business. “This is an
extortion.”
“Well,” said the kindly-looking
stranger, “I'll go back and reason
with the gentleman, and try and get
the papers for $25.” And he disappeared
in the back room again.
In a moment he returned, smiling.
“Well, Mr. Stout,” he said, “my
friend will take $25, but he wants
the money before he gives up the pocket-book.”
“All right,” said Mr. Stout, blandly, “here is $25.
Take it to him, my good man, take it to him and bring
back the papers—quick!”
“One word, Mr. Stout,” said the man, confidentially,
“this thing, you know, is to be strictly between ourselves.”
“Yes, yes; I've said it.”
“And you will never ask any questions, tell anything,
or seek further knowledge, will you?”
“No, never, I give you my word, as President of the
Shoe and Leather Bank, my good man, not to say anything
about it, not a single syllable—not even to my
wife.”
“All right, then—mum is the word,” said Mr. Stout's
friend, as he put his finger to his lips and passed into
the back room with the money.
Mr. Stout waited patiently for his return—waited five,
ten, fifteen minutes, but alas! his friend never came
back, and the shrewd President returned to the bank,
a sad and a ruined man. He says his friend is welcome
to the $25, but he told Daniel Drew that he
wouldn't have the story get into print or around among
his friends for $10,000.
“No, sir, it wouldn't be fair, Daniel, would it?” said
Mr. Stout, “when I promised—solemnly promised the
man when I gave him the $25 never to mention the
matter—not even to my wife.”
| Eli Perkins (at large) | |