I had handed the ring, as I commenced my story, to Mr. Clemens, who placed it upon a book lying on the table, where it lay throughout our discourse, which was carried on for nearly an hour. Near the conclusion, Mr. Clemens said, "But after all this I do not feel that the ring is yet justly mine. You have earned a part of it, at least, and I wish you to tell me how much I shall pay you for your trouble. I should have lost the ring wholly but for you, and I am willing to pay you half its value, seven hundred and fifty dollars."
"O, no," said I, "I could not for a moment consent to take so much. In fact, I would have no right to."
"Well, name the price."
"If you give me fifty dollars I shall be satisfied."
"No such paltry sum, sir," said the generous Southerner. "You shall take double, yes, four times that, at least."
"Yes," said Mr. Hale, "and I'll gladly pay half of it, or the whole of it, or double it, and make it four hundred."
But I insisted upon only one hundred; and paying me that, Mr. Clemens restored the ring to his finger, saying, "The next time I allow a stranger, no matter whose friend he is, to trifle with my property, I shall know it, I reckon. It's been a good lesson, cheaply bought, for me."
Business over, these cheerful people insisted upon entertaining me till a late hour, and I recited to them some quaint instances in the detective's life; but they could not but think that their adventure in New York had been the most remarkable of all.
I dare say that the lesson they learned that night will serve them through life; and although their loss was so stupidly occasioned that I presume they keep it secret as to themselves, I've no doubt they sometimes tell it, in the third person, as a warning to their friends who may be "going abroad, travelling."
It is a trite saying, that "'tis not all gold that glitters." Everybody has heard it, and repeated it, but few only profit by it.