The play that won

by Ralph Henry Barbour

“Bag!” he cried.

Tom pushed it across with one foot.

“Thanks! I’ll have to send—that fifty. What’s—the name?”

“Tom Burrill, sir, but I don’t want any money.”

“All abo-o-oard!” called the conductor.

“Nonsense! Tom Burrill? Live in Kingston? You’ll hear from me—day or two! By!”

Mr. Fletcher rushed away, and was half pushed up the steps of a parlor car as the train moved off. Ten minutes later, at the bank, Tom put a question to the man at the window:

“Is there a Mr. Fletcher who lives here in Bristol, sir?”

“Fletcher? Certainly. Mr. Henry L. Fletcher lives here.”