There are several variations of this yarn but a Scotch friend of mine insists that the one which follows is the correct one and, by that same token, the proper ancestor of all the crop of differing versions. As he sets forth the original narrative it runs something like this: An Aberdonian on his first visit to London got off the train at Euston station. While proceeding afoot along Euston Road on his way to his hotel he suffered a terrific misfortune. He dropped a sixpence and it rolled out of sight. The desolated victim put down his luggage and began a vigorous search for the missing coin. Presently a friendly policeman came along and having learned from the grieved Scot what the trouble was, proceeded to aid him in the hunt, but with no results, excepting the loss of fifteen minutes. Finally the Bobby said: “You go along on your way and I’ll keep my eye open for your money. If it turns up I’ll have it for you, if you’ll come back this way this afternoon.” All day the Scot was afflicted with distress. Promptly at four o’clock he was back on the spot where his sixpence had vanished. During the day the gas company had had a squad of men excavating in the street for new mains so that when the Aberdonian reappeared he found the paving torn up and a wide, deep trench extending from the house line to the middle of the road. He gazed at the scene for a moment and then remarked to himself: “Weel, I must admit one thing—they are verra thorough here.” § 109 “A Rose by Any Other Name . . .” At a closely contested municipal election in New York the Tammany ticket seemed in grave danger. Accordingly steps were taken. Scarcely had the polls opened when a group of trained and experienced repeaters marched into a down-town voting place. “What name?” inquired the election clerk of the leader of the squad, who was red-haired and freckled and had a black eye. The young gangster glanced down at a slip of paper in his hand to refresh his memory. “Isadore Mendelheim,” he said then. “That’s not your real name, and you know it!” said a suspicious challenger for the reform ticket. “It is me name,” said the repeater, “and I’m goin’ to vote under it—see?” From down the line came a voice: “Don’t let that guy bluff you, Casey. Soitin’ly your name is Mendelheim!” § 110 A Detail of Figures Grand Central Pete was a noted bunco-steerer of the old days, but could neither read nor write. Once he fell upon hard times, and he and a younger but equally luckless confidence man undertook to beat their way on a freight train to Washington. A brake-man kicked them off at Trenton.