"I say, Mr. Niblo, did you hear about my luck?" he asked, slapping me on
the shoulder.
"Why, no, what's happened now?" I replied, wondering if he had drawn the
grand prize in a lottery, or if his children had the measles.
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"Well, you know when I went away to the country, I only took my five
children and I brought ten home with me."
"How was that?" I asked, in surprise.
"Well, they ate green apples and got doubled up."
Singular what queer things do happen on the electric cars of a great
metropolis. The other day I was riding down to the City Hall in a pretty
crowded car when something happened.
All the other passengers in the car were men except one; and she was a
girl, a nice, pretty, young thing of that peculiar pinkish clarity of
complexion more commonly designated "peaches and cream."
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The conductor had just collected her fare and was proceeding on his way
to the rear platform when the girl grabbed at the left arm of her jacket
and emitted a gaspy little scream.
"What is it, miss?" asked the conductor.
"Oh, what shall I do?" moaned the girl. "I've lost it! I've lost my Yale
pin!"
And she looked as if she would topple over on the man next to her. The
conductor stooped and looked about the floor of the car. All of us
passengers did the same. The pretty young thing shook out her skirts
vigorously. All hands lent their aid to lift up the gratings and to
search the space beneath them. There was, however, no signs of the
cherished emblem. About the time everybody was beginning to feel
exhausted the girl suddenly exclaimed:
"Oh, I remember now! It's all right. Don't bother any more. I gave it
back last night."
"City Hall!" yelled the conductor, and I was glad to get off.
Last time I rode in a trolley car I got a scare for sure. Honestly now,
it gave me a queer feeling up and down my spine when I noticed that the
car number was 1313, and what made it worse we were just passing
Thirteenth Street at the time.
I thought I would mention the fact to the conductor, especially when
upon counting the passengers I found there were just that fatal number
aboard.
It was the thirteenth of the month too, and bless you if that
conductor's number wasn't just 3913.
So I grimly paraded these significant facts before the attention of the
knight of the fare register.
"I should think it would make you nervous!" I remarked.
"Only once't that I remember," said the conductor, with a grin.
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"When and how?"
"There was thirteen babies in this here car yellin' in thirteen
different keys all at the same time," replied the conductor.
Some people are so superstitious, you know, always carrying home old
horseshoes and nailing them up over the door--why, a pagan nation like
the Japanese have the same custom with other embellishments.
The fun of it is, while some stoutly maintain the horseshoe must be
nailed with the forks pointing upward, there are others just as set in
their belief that if a chap wants real good luck to swoop down upon his
domicile it is absolutely imperative that the opening must be left
below.
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Why Ketcham actually grew hot under the collar the other day because I
sneered when he chanced to mention what horrible bad fortune had come
to him since his propitiation to the gods was stolen from his barn door
by a wandering dago junk-man.
"Don't you believe then that there's good luck in finding a horseshoe?"
he demanded, fiercely.
"Why, yes, under certain conditions," I replied; "for instance when you
find it on the winning horse."
Ketcham is quite a gay fellow, and a member of many clubs, so that he
can seldom be found home of an evening.
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