The Oyster Swindler of State Street

One of those toil-hardened, true-hearted chaps of the road made his appearance on the campus yesterday and his sympathies were at once aroused by the sight of three or four men standing around with their buckets and waiting for work. 'I'll be hanged if it isn't too bad,' he replied. They told him they hadn't had any work for a month. 'How would you like some oysters?' They smacked their lips by way of reply, and he gathered up the crew of eight, marched them to a restaurant and ordered raw oysters for each one of them. 'It just does my soul good to see them eat,' he said to the owner of the place as the eight got to work. 'Yes, it's a beautiful sight,' was the reply. 'It makes me feel good in here,' continued the stranger, laying his hand on his heart. 'A good deed brings its own reward,' was the soft answer of the restaurateur, as he calculated the profits. 'I can't rest here; I must do further good,' said the big-hearted stranger, and he rushed out and brought in three negroes, a chimney-sweep, two boys and an old woman, and ordered more oysters. The fifteen people went for oyster soup in a manner to amaze, and their guardian nudged the restaurateur in the ribs, and said: 'See the gentle lambs. Oh, that I could feed the poor of America!' The stranger said he wanted to bring in just five more, so as to say he had fed an even score, and rushed out after them, while the restaurateur sent after more oysters and crackers. The stranger didn't return. He was last seen climbing into a farmer's sleigh on State Street and guiding his team to the West. The fifteen in the restaurant licked their plates clean and departed in joyful procession, and the last one passed out before the man who furnished the soup finished waiting for the pay of the big-hearted stranger.