The others were exhibited. Out of them all the conductor declared that only the one-dollar bill was genuine.
Probably it had not been thought worth while to counterfeit a bill of so low a denomination.
“Oh, what’ll Sarah say?” ejaculated the distressed farmer. “What a tarnal fool I’ve been! She wanted me to buy her a nice dress out of it, and I’ve only got a dollar left!”
“Perhaps the man may be caught,” suggested Harry.
“I don’t believe it. Simon Jones, you ain’t fit to go around alone. You’re as green as—as—a gooseberry!”
Harry pitied him, but was unable to offer any adequate consolation.
“Will you give me your name and address?” he said. “And, if I can hear anything of your coupons, or the man that swindled you, I’ll write and let you know.”
“Will you? I’m obleeged to you,” said the farmer, who had formed quite a high idea of our hero’s sagacity from his declining the trap into which he himself had fallen. “My name is Simon Jones, of Crabtree Hollow, Connecticut.”
Harry entered it in a little memorandum book which he carried.
At length the great city was reached, and the crowd of passengers dispersed in different directions.