The tramp was not drunk, and his appearance was not that of a drinking man. His features were refined and clear-cut in the moonlight; and his voice—well, his voice was queer. It sounded like a man talking plainly in his sleep.
The Post Man concluded that his mind was unbalanced.
The tramp spoke again.
“I said I had plenty of money,” he continued, “and I have. I will show a few—a very few of the wonders that you respectable, plodding, well-dressed people do not imagine to exist. Look at this ring.”
He took from his finger a curious carved ring of beaten copper, wrought into a design that the moonlight did not suffer to be deciphered, and handed it to the reporter.
“Rub that ring thrice with the thumb of your left hand,” said the tramp.
The reporter did so, with a creepy feeling that made him smile to himself. The tramp’s eyes beamed, and he pointed into the air, following with his finger the movements of some invisible object.
“It is Artamela,” he said, “the slave of the ring—catch!”
He swept his hollowed hand into space, scooping up something, and handed it to the reporter.
“See!” he said, “golden coins. I can bring them at will in unlimited numbers. Why should I beg?”