An East Sider of foreign birth prospered to the extent where he graduated from the ranks of the sidewalk merchants and became a regular business man, with a store and showcases and everything. Also, for the first time in his life he was able to start a bank account. One day he was engaged on the telephone by the assistant cashier of the bank where he kept his checking fund. “Mr. Abrams,” stated the cashier, “I called you up to tell you that on the first day of this month your account appears overdrawn $108.” “So?” droned Mr. Abrams. “Say, young man, would you do it for me a favor?” “Sure.” “Then, please, you should look at your books und tell me how stood the account on the foist day of last month.” In a minute or two the bank functionary was back at the ’phone. “Oh, Mr. Abrams,” he said, “on the first day of last month you had a balance to your credit of $322.25.” “So!” shouted Mr. Abrams. “Und did I call you up?” § 45 Driven Beyond His Strength There was a down-and-outer, who made a precarious living as a sandwich man. Encased front and back, like a turtle in its shell, between broad boards which bore advertisements for a dairy lunch, he marched the Bowery all day long for wages barely sufficient to keep body and soul together. One day, as he plodded his weary route, he saw a shining coin lying upon the sidewalk. Instantly he set his foot upon it, and then, stooping with difficulty because of his wooden waistcoat, he clutched it in his eager fingers and raised it to his eyes. His heart inside of him gave a great throb. It was a twenty-dollar gold piece. He was wealthy beyond his wildest ambitions. Across the street was an excavation for a new building. He hurried thither. Standing on the edge of the digging he unbuckled the straps which bound the squares of planking to him, and, kicking them to pieces with a glad, exultant cry, he flung the shattered emblems of his servitude down into the hole below. Then straightway he departed for the nearest saloon. Stalking in, a triumphant figure even in his tatters, he slapped his precious gold piece down upon the bar and called for a drink of whiskey. It was to have been the first of a long and gorgeous succession of drinks of whiskey. Some one jostled him in the side. He turned his head, and when he looked back again his double eagle mysteriously had vanished, and the barkeeper was motioning him to depart. He protested, naturally. Whereupon the barkeeper reached for the bung starter, swung it with a skill born of long practice, and struck him squarely between the eyes. A moment later the ex-sandwich man found himself sprawling on the sidewalk, his happy visions gone forever. A prey to melancholy, filled with deep disappointments and a yet deeper sense of injustice, he got upon his feet and started to limp away.