Page:The Sunday Eight O'Clock (1916).pdf/89



HE boy who sold me the New York Times on the train at Altoona last week short-changed me consciously, intentionally, with a guileless innocent look on his face and a "Thank you" on his lips as he tried to disappear without being caught. He was as polite as an Italian waiter when he handed back my money.

When I was a boy of fifteen on the farm I sold a load of hay to an old neighbor who had been my teacher in the country school and for whom I had had great respect. When the hay was loaded upon the wagon and he was ready to drive away he put his hand into his pocket, looked surprised, and said, "There, I forgot my pocketbook; I'll pay you the next time I see you." Even with my boyish inexperience I saw through his subterfuge and realized that he was sim-