“A colloquial expression of the philosophy of indifference,” observed E. Van Tenner with a smile.
“On the contrary,” retorted the beggar, “it is a serious and profound inquiry into first causes. The magic inheres in it. Under-stand, now: You are not to scrimp and scrooge at all. Parsimony by people who can afford to spend does harm, not good. And this magic, being white magic, works only for good. But if you undertake to remove money from that purse for any purely wasteful purpose the magic will be loosed; and you shall see what you shall see—or, more accurately, feel what you shall feel.”
“The purse will stir in my pocket, I suppose,” laughed E. Van Tenner.
“Much deeper,” replied the beggar gravely. “In your conscience.”
“I accept your challenge,” said the other. He emptied his pockets and deposited all his money under the guardianship of the inquiry “What’s the good?”
“To start from the moment when I leave my office for the train.”
“I shall expect to hear from you on your return,” replied the beggar, and vanished by the magical process of stepping into a bewitched compartment which, at the touch of a brass-buttoned wizard’s hand upon a lever, dropped harmlessly down a frightful chasm and disgorged him unharmed upon the street.
On the punctual fifteen minutes before train time E. Van Tenner picked up his small, light traveling bag and walked the two blocks to the station. There he was met by an obsequious porter to whom he mechanically surrendered the insignificant burden. Instinctively he felt in his change pocket to see whether he had any silver. None. Nor in his trousers pocket. Why, what had he—
Oh, of course. The beggar’s purse, in his breast pocket. He reached in for it and the purse bit him. At least that was his first startled thought, so queer and unpleasant a thrill ran up his finger. Then it was the porter’s turn to be startled, for E. Van Tenner, retrieving his luggage, addressed to him a positive monosyllable: “None.”
“Wha’—wha’ that you say, suh?”