TWO FORTUNE-SEEKERS.
BY ROSSITER JOHNSON.
ONE afternoon I went over to see Fred Barnard, and found him sitting on the back steps, apparently meditating.
“What are you doing?” said I.
“Waiting for that handkerchief to dry,” said he, pointing to a red one with round white spots, which hung on the clothes-line.
“And what are you going to do when it’s dry?” said I.
“Tie up my things in it,” said he.