A crafty, cunning look, spread over the young sport's weak face. "You can't light those matches that way," he said.
"I'll bet I kin," the old man replied doggedly, making his fifth unsuccessful attempt.
"What will you bet?" the young fellow asked, quickly, an evil light gleaming in his fishy eyes.
"Wal I never yet seen a match I couldn't light on my pants. I'll bet you a quarter."
The young man fished out his wad of bills. "I'm no tin horn," he replied, with a sneer. "But if you want to lose your money, I'll bet you $100 you can't light one of those matches on your trousers."
"Land sakes!" cried the old farmer. "A hundred dollars?"
"That's what I said," replied the young fellow, grinning at his pals. "This gentleman will hold the money," he continued, peeling off a hundred dollar bill from his roll and thrusting it into my hands.
I had just about decided to spoil the game with a little history on safety matches, when the old farmer who had been fishing around in his wallet, darted a shrewd glance at me, then deliberately winked.
Finally, he counted out $100 in small bills, which he handed over to me, grabbed a safety match from the container, rubbed it on the leg of his trousers, and when to my astonishment, it burst into flame, calmly lighted his cigar and held out his hand for the $200 which I passed over to him.
Later, in the pullman, as the old fellow was mooching by my chair, he raised his coat enough to show me the side of a safety match box sewed to the leg of his trousers.