"It beats three of a kind," was the triumphant answer.
Feeling a little indisposed while at Sandusky, I sauntered into an apothecary shop, intending to purchase some mild drug, to the use of which I am addicted, and which usually comes to us from Havana.
As I stood a moment after getting my light, an old country-man came shuffling in.
He was a character, I'm telling you; why, it stuck out all over his furrowed face just like the tracks of a lost hen in the mud.
I saw him pull out a red bandanna handkerchief and frown as he surveyed the big knot in the end.
You needn't smile—that old codger wasn't the first man to forget why he had tied a knot in his handkerchief or a string around his finger.
"Well, uncle, what is it?" asked the clerk.
"I'll get around to it pretty quick. Now, what place is it down yonder on the lake?"