"Say, mister, you'll know dad, 'cause he's got his hat on."
While I'm at it, let me relate an experience I had with homely men, and
I remember it the better because it cost me five dollars.
I chanced to be on one of the Old Dominion steamers at the time, in
company with Tom Plunger, whose game it was to play the races.
Tom was a mighty good fellow, and his only fault lay in the fact that he
stuttered dreadfully.
That's an awful infliction, but it sometimes adds piquancy to a joke,
just as Worcestershire sauce does to your chops.
We hadn't been long on the water, when I observed a most
remarkable-looking individual pacing the deck.
I've seen some ill-looking men in my day, but this specimen was surely
the very worst that had ever crossed the scope of my vision, and beat
that old Alabama farmer out of sight.
I said as much to my friend, whereupon Tom offered to wager a
five-dollar bill that he had seen a worse one in the steerage.