put that in his pocket—Toddles put his fingers to his nose. 

 Queer, isn't it—the way things happen? Think of a man's whole life, aspirations, hopes, ambitions, everything, pivoting on—a lead quarter! But then they say that opportunity knocks once at the door of every man; and, if that be true, let it be remarked in passing that Toddles wasn't deaf! 

 Hawkeye, making Toddles a target for a parting gibe, took up his lantern and started through the train to pick up the fares from the last stop. In due course he halted before the inebriated one with the glittering tie-pin in the smoking compartment of the parlor car. 

 "Ticket, please," said Hawkeye. 

 "Too busy to buysh ticket," the man informed him, with heavy confidence.  "Whash fare Loon Dam to Big Cloud?" 

 "One-fifty," said Hawkeye curtly. 

 The man produced a roll of bills, and from the roll extracted a two-dollar note. 

 Hawkeye handed him back two quarters, and started to punch a cash-fare slip. He looked up to find the man holding out one of the quarters insistently, if somewhat unsteadily. 

 "What's the matter?" demanded Hawkeye brusquely. 

 "Bad," said the man. 

 A drummer grinned; and an elderly gentleman, from his magazine, looked up inquiringly over his spectacles. 

 "Bad!"  Hawkeye brought his elbow sharply around to focus his lamp on the coin; then he leaned over and rang it on the window sill—only it wouldn't ring. It was indubitably bad. Hawkeye, however, was dealing with a drunk—and Hawkeye always did have a mean streak in him. 

 "It's perfectly good," he asserted gruffly. 

 The man rolled an eye at the conductor that mingled a sudden shrewdness and anger, and appealed to his fellow travellers. The verdict was against Hawkeye, and Hawkeye ungraciously pocketed the lead piece and handed over another quarter. 

 "Shay," observed the inebriated one insolently, "shay, conductor, I don't like you. You thought I was—hic!—s'drunk I wouldn't know—eh? 

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