And how his cash was buttoned in his pocket dark and dim,
And how he guessed no man alive on earth could gammon him.
In ardent conversation ere long the three were steeped,
And in that good man’s confidence the younger party deeped.
The p’liceman, as he shadowed them, exclaimed in blooming rage,
“They’re stuffin’ of that duck, I guess, and leavin’ out the sage.”
He saw the game distinctly, and inspected how it took,
And watched the reappearance of that brownsome pocket-book,
And how that futile ancient, ere he buttoned up his coat,
Had interchanged, obliging-like, a greensome coloured note.