It was always “nuts” to me to see Harry deal out the tips, as he called them, and when we struck a new lead and were working up a new game, he would say:
“I wonder what this geezer will take, cigars, whiskey, or soft-soap?”
One morning about eight o’clock we came in sight of a lumber yard with a small office; standing above on the top of the office was a signboard on which was painted Capt. J. J. Jones. I called Harry’s attention to it and said:
“How is that for conceit?”
Harry commenced counting on his fingers:
“One, two, three, four, five. That’s the checker, Capt. Jones, J. J., you are my meat. He needs the army tip and I’m the boy who can tip him.”
We walked into the office, there were three men there. Harry never hesitated a moment but walked up to one of them, held out his hand, and said:
“Captain Jones, I am pleased to make your acquaintance. There is not a man who ever fought in the Civil War that I would not go miles to see. I have always felt sorry that I did not live in those stirring times. What regiment were you in, Colonel?”
“The—the——Pennsylvania,” said Mr. Jones, “and there was no finer regiment in the service.”
The other two men had gone out of the office.