 | Eli Perkins (at large) |  |
PAWN-SHOP CLOTHES.
One of our swell Fifth Avenue fellows was walking
in the hall of the hotel last night, displaying a nobby
London suit of clothes, and smoking a 40-cent “Henry
Clay.”
“Hallo, Gus!” said a friend, taking hold of his coat
lappel, “why, I thought that coat was new; but—ah—
I see now! it was bought out of a pawn-shop.”
“Out of a pawn-shop? I guess not!” says Gus,
highly insulted.
“Yes, Gus, you bought that coat out of a pawn shop
—now own up—didn't you?”
“Look here, Charley Gibson (frowning terribly), I
don't allow any one to insult me, and I won't stand
any more of your devilish insin—”
“But, Gus, what's the use of being so airy about
it?” interrupted Charley. “I'll bet you a basket of
champagne that you did buy this coat out of a pawn-shop
anyway.”
“All right, it's a bet. Now come down to Brooks
Brothers and I will show you the man who cut it.”
“Well then, of course you bought it out of a pawn
shop; you didn't buy it in a pawn-shop, did you, Gus?”
| Eli Perkins (at large) | |