Once, to be sure, he did think how poorly his mother was dressed; and how much good the money would do her; but, no; he would keep it himself. He had found it, and it was his.
As night approached he sold his coal and junk to the man who owned a cart and could more readily dispose of them, then hurried away to procure his new jacket before he went home.
The shop was already lighted when he reached it. He pointed to the jacket, which he was pleased to see had not been sold; tried it on, and it proved a very good fit. He buttoned it tightly to his chin, and found it exceedingly comfortable. Then he took the envelope from his pocket, and detaching the bill passed it to the merchant and was walking off, when the man called out, angrily,—
"Here, you young rascal, you just take that 'ere coat right off! Your money aint worth one copper! It's counterfeit."
"Counterfeit!" stammered Pat, ready to cry. "What is a counterfeit?"
"Don't you think to try any of your dodges on me," screamed the man, "I've cut my eye-teeth, I tell you. Take it off, I say, or I'll have the police here."
"I don't know what you mean," faltered Pat, beginning to sob. "You said 'twas a dollar, and I give you a dollar."
"No, you didn't, you only give me a counterfeit, and here 'tis," tearing the bill in halves.
Pat started forward to rescue his money, now really angry. "It's mine," he screamed. "I found it in the rags."
"Oho!" said the merchant, beginning to understand. "So you found it, hey? Well, I'm sorry for you; but 'twasn't a real dollar; it only looked like one. When you get a real dollar I'll sell you the jacket."