The Con Artist’s Benevolent Hustle

There were a dozen men in a shop on Front Avenue yesterday, smoking and talking away, when a dreary-looking, middle-aged stranger entered and crowded into the heat. When he had sat a little and wiped the tears from his eyes, he looked around and said: 'Did any of you read about that terrible cyclone in the East?' One or two replied that they had seen an account of it. 'Well, listen to me,' he continued. 'What kind of suffering is there in this world this winter? It is the duty of every man who has a dollar to spare it to the poor victims. I am going to pass around the hat.' He did, and when he had completed the circuit, it was as empty as when he started. 'I am deeply touched and saddened,' he remarked, as he put on his hat. 'These poor people need money, and though I am a man, I am going to forward my share. Is there anyone here who will take a five-dollar bill and send it across the ocean for me?' 'I suppose I could send it,' replied the tobacconist, eyeing the stranger. 'Yes, I suppose you could, eh?' replied the latter, as he bit the cigar and lighted it. 'I'll take it,' called out seven or eight others. 'That's good. Do any of you happen to have any fine-cut about you?' A full pouch was handed him, and he lifted out half its contents into his vest-pocket, and went on: 'Well, I want to send five dollars, and I want some of you to take the money and shoot it across the ocean in a regular business style. I will now go out and borrow the five.' There was a grand rush for him, but he was twenty-five feet ahead and gaining as he turned into Fifth Street.