There used to be a big dry-goods store on the east side of Chatham Square. It had two immense brass signs.
“Nawthin’ doin’,” said the man, when I applied for the job of cleaning them. Nevertheless, I cleaned and polished a square foot of one big sign. The boss looked at it, and then at Tim and me.
“I’ll clean both for a dime,” I said.
“Well, go ahead,” he said. The Cleaning Company went from store to store until we had enough money for our bills, a meal, and a surplus in the treasury.
As we sat down to dinner at “Beefsteak John’s,” I handed Tim the surplus, and rather impatiently probed for his acknowledgment of my victory. I had made good, and wanted all that was due me.
“What do you think of it, Tim?” I asked, with an air of satisfaction and confidence.
“Shure, ye’re a janyus, yer Honor; no doubt av that at all, at all; but——”
“Go on!” I said.
“I was jist switherin’, yer Honor, what a wontherful thing ut is that a man kin always hev worruk whin he invints ut!”
“Well, that’s worth knowing,” I said disappointedly. “Did you learn anything else?”