A boy had been loitering around the store and about the counter, on which were the candy-jars, for some time. A man less suspicious than Mr. Gaylord would have feared that the youth was trying to steal something, but not so with my friend. He retained his place at the rear of the store and continued his observations on men and things, as unruffled as if each jar had been supplied with a steel-trap attachment. Presently that boy passed out of the door as if he had been shot out of a howitzer, tore over across the way at an alarming pace, and dived into a grocery store. Next we saw him emerge from a side door into the yard, and the attention he then paid to the product of a chain pump showed that he hadn’t the hydrophobia, at all events. The quantity of water which he poured into him, and then threw out again, was about three times as much as there is in the Mississippi River, and his maneuvers were even more astonishing than those of a perjured witness under the scalpel of the cross-examiner. “Well, I swow,” said Gaylord, finally, “I s’posed all the boys knew I had Cayenne lozengers in them air jars;” and then he danced around and laughed until his thirty-two dollar set of artificial teeth dropped on the floor and broke into flinders, when he smiled no more.

Captain Charles de Costa, whose name has already been mentioned in these pages, was a man, as has been indicated, who had no pronounced scruples about changing his base of operations. He had no abiding faith in the theory that

To him old associations were not of particular importance, and he never bought anything with gold—or currency, even—which he could purchase on credit, and having no house he filled it not with paintings either rare or otherwise, or sculptures rich or poor. In short, he was a rolling stone who gathered no Morse except what was transmitted to him, but he gathered that with an ease and grace which has never been surpassed and seldom equalled. The captain not only drifted from “the rock bound coasts of Maine to the golden sands of the Pacific” about once a year, but he also drifted to and fro from the service of the American Telegraph Company to that of railroad companies owning wires, and was never happier than when on the eve of transferring his valuable services from one corporation to another. Sometimes, I regret to say, his period of service was abruptly terminated by his employers without the formality of consulting his wishes, and he was left without visible means of support for an indefinite length of time. It was during one of these dreary interregnums, which were by no means infrequent in his history, that he accosted a knot of telegraphers on Broadway one evening and asked for a loan—a small one. He said that it was likely to be a permanent if not a paying investment, and a purse of nine cents was finally made up for his benefit. “Now, if I pay my fare to Fiftieth Street, that will only leave me four cents for a beer,” said De Costa, reflectively. “I’ll go get the beer first and trust to luck to get up town on the other four cents. Thanks gentlemen, ‘I owe you one,’ as Dr. Ollapod would say; as a matter of fact, my beloved brethren, I owe you several. Good night.” His friends watched him for a moment as he tripped gaily up the street, until he suddenly disappeared in the vicinity of a pair of posts surmounted with red lamps, having “oysters” painted on them. Men much exhilarated, loud of voice, and inclined to burst into discordant song often came out between those lamp posts—an argument undoubtedly against the consumption of oysters. Later the captain came out and made his way as dignified as usual to a neighboring car stand. He took up a position on the front platform of the car, and before it started had invented a story which he thought would get him up to Fiftieth Street, where he had relatives, for four cents. But he had no occasion to tell it. For some unexplained reason the conductor didn’t disturb him, and at Fiftieth Street De Costa left the car as light hearted as a bird. “I’ll have to celebrate that piece of good fortune,” he said. “But I can’t beer up on four cents.” He walked down the street, however, toward a lager beer garden. He must have been studying as he went, for, as he approached the bar, he blandly remarked to the man of juleps, smashes, etc: “Balmy evening, Jim; rather late home to-night for a pious citizen. Must correct my habits in deference to my early teachings, and return home earlier. By the way, my friend, would you do me the great kindness to lend me a cent?” Cap was an entire stranger to the bartender, but the request was so pleasantly made, the style of the applicant so breezy, and the loan asked so small, that the fellow, though puzzled, was very glad to accommodate. “If you mean it, certainly sir,” said he. “Mean it?” repeated Cap. “Do I look like a man who would jest?” The penny was handed over