THE people who beat you, hornswoggle and cheat you, don’t profit for
long from the kale; for folks who are tricky find Nemesis sticky—it
never abandons their trail. I’ve often been cheated; the trick’s been
repeated so often I cannot keep tab; but ne’er has the duffer who thus
made me suffer been much better off for his grab. It pays not to
swindle; dishonest rolls dwindle like snow when exposed to the sun; like
feathers in Tophet is burned up the profit of cheating, the crooked
man’s mon. The people who sting me unknowingly bring me philosophy
fresh, by the crate; I don’t get excited—my wrongs will be righted, by
Nemesis, Fortune, or Fate. I know that the stingers—they think they are
dingers, and gloat o’er the coin they don’t earn—I know they’ll be
busted and sick and disgusted, while I still have rubles to burn. I’d
rather be hollow with hunger than follow the course that the tricksters
pursue; I’d rather be “easy” than do as the breezy and conscienceless
gentlemen do. Far better the shilling you’ve earned by the tilling of
soil that is harder than bricks, than any old dollar you manage to
collar by crooked and devious tricks.
[Illustration]
------------------------------------------------------------------------