“What did you do with it?” Dowling asked. Each had lived in the belief that the other had got away with it.
The tinker-preacher was very much stirred up over this. He wrote at once to the governor-general of India, told the whole story, and offered to come out and locate the stolen booty. Money was appropriated to pay his passage, but the old man was going on another journey. He wrote a full description of the place and transaction, and then lay down in the tower of the old church and died.
“Doc,” our Volunteer Organist
“Say, Bub,” said Gar, the bouncer, to me one day, “what ungodly hour of the mornin’ d’ye git up?”
“At the godly hour of necessity,” I replied.
“Wal, I hev a pal I want ter interjooce to ye at six.”
I met the bouncer and his “pal” at the corner of Broome Street and the Bowery next morning at the appointed hour.
“Dat’s Doc!” said Gar, as he clapped his hand on his friend’s head.
His friend bowed low and in faultless English said: “I am more than pleased to meet you.”
“I can give ye a pointer on Doc,” the big fellow continued. “If ye tuk a peaner t’ th’ top av a mountain an’ let her go down the side sorter ez she pleases, ’e cud pick up the remains an’ put thim together so’s ye w’u’dn’t know they’d been apart. Yes, sir; that’s no song an’ dance, an’ ’e c’u’d play any chune iver invented on it.”