“Hello, old chap,” says the first, “I didn’t know you were aboard. What space did you have last night?” “I was in Lower Eleven,” said the second man. “How did you rest?” asks number one. “Rotten! I guess it must have been a fancy, but I had the feeling that all night long somebody was walking up and down just over my head.” § 326 A Tribute to the Father Over the alley fence the colored grass widow was calling her small black offspring. “Morphy!” she shouted. “Oh, you Morphy! Come yere to me.” The passing white man was moved by curiosity to halt and ask questions: “‘Morphy’?—isn’t that rather a curious name for a boy, Aunty?” “Dat ain’t his full name,” she explained. “Dat’s jest whut I calls ’im fur short. Dat chile’s full name is Morphine.” “Well, then, why Morphine?” “Ain’t you never heered de word ‘Morphine’?” “Certainly; but never in this connection. Would you mind telling me why you chose it when you were christening this child?” “I chose it ’cause it wuz de mos’ suitable one dey wuz. ’Bout de time he wuz bawn, I heerd one of de w’ite folks readin’ out of a book dat Morphine wuz de product of a wild poppy. “An’, Mista, ef evah a chile had a wild poppy, dis is de chile!” § 327 The Personal Touch Was Lacking Among gamblers there is a saying, and a true one, that no matter how wise a guy may be in his own line he’s always a sucker at some other fellow’s game. The expert confidence man goes against the crooked roulette wheel. The promoter of fixed foot-races blows his loot on faro. It has remained for a sporting person whose specialty is poker to explain why, in his own case, he fails to garner any profits when he invades a kindred field of endeavor. He went to Belmont track one day to play the races. When he returned home in the evening he was penniless. The hand book-makers had stripped him of his last dollar. His wife took him to task. “You certainly are a boob,” she said. “Every time you go to the track you come home cleaned out. Why is it you always lose there when you always can win at cards?” “Well,” he said, “I’ve been thinking about that very thing myself, and I guess the answer is that I don’t shuffle the horses.” § 328 Straight from the Scriptures Several versions of this story are current but the one I like best of all goes like this: There was a colored preacher who served a term in state’s prison in West Virginia for horse-stealing. After his release he changed his name and moved to Alabama. There he became the pastor of a prosperous flock. He figured that his past life was entirely buried. None of the congregation had the slightest suspicion that he was an ex-convict, and he hoped to go on until the end of his days enjoying the confidence of the community.