"Oh, what shall I do?" moaned the girl. "I've lost it! I've lost my Yale pin!"
And she looked as if she would topple over on the man next to her. The conductor stooped and looked about the floor of the car. All of us passengers did the same. The pretty young thing shook out her skirts vigorously. All hands lent their aid to lift up the gratings and to search the space beneath them. There was, however, no signs of the cherished emblem. About the time everybody was beginning to feel exhausted the girl suddenly exclaimed:
"Oh, I remember now! It's all right. Don't bother any more. I gave it back last night."
"City Hall!" yelled the conductor, and I was glad to get off.
Last time I rode in a trolley car I got a scare for sure. Honestly now, it gave me a queer feeling up and down my spine when I noticed that the car number was 1313, and what made it worse we were just passing Thirteenth Street at the time.
I thought I would mention the fact to the conductor, especially when upon counting the passengers I found there were just that fatal number aboard.
It was the thirteenth of the month too, and bless you if that conductor's number wasn't just 3913.
So I grimly paraded these significant facts before the attention of the knight of the fare register.
"I should think it would make you nervous!" I remarked.