It was getting late and neither of them had a cent. Across the tracks from where they had landed was a hotel and right next door was an express office. Pete had an idea. He went into the express office, begged one of those large manila envelopes such as are used for transporting currency, filled the envelope with pieces of newspaper cut to the size of banknotes, and sealed it carefully. “Now then,” he said to his partner, “you take your fountain pen and write on the back of that there envelope ‘$9,000.’ Then we’ll go over to that hotel and explain that we’ve lost our baggage, and I’ll hand this envelope to the clerk and ask him to lock it in the safe. He’ll look at the figures on the back—and he’ll take us for moneyed guys and give us rooms and grub until we can raise a stake.” The scheme sounded good to the younger man. He got out his pen and obeyed orders. Grand Central Pete took the envelope back in his hands and examined it carefully. “Does that say nine thousand dollars?” he demanded. “Yep,” said his partner. “Well, it don’t look big enough to me,” said Pete. “You’d better add on some more of them naughts.” The younger man protested, but Pete would have his way and kept after him until the educated one had tacked on three more naughts, making the grand total $9,000,000. Then Pete marched grandly over to the hotel, registered for himself and his friend, passed the stuffed envelope across the desk to the clerk and called for the bridal suite. The clerk took one look at the envelope, another look at the soiled faces and shabby apparel of the newcomers—and rang the bell for the bouncer. A minute later the discomfited pair were sitting on the sidewalk. Grand Central Pete raised himself painfully and eyed his companion with a scornful, angry glance. “There now,—dad-gum you!” he shouted; “I told you you hadn’t wrote in enough of them naughts!” § 111 Provision for the Future Nobody could tell a yarn of his own race better than the late Bert Williams could. I remember one story he used to tell. Hearing him tell it you felt, despite its gorgeous impossibility, that somehow it might have happened and that anyhow it should have happened. To the best of my recollection his version, delivered in his wonderful Afric drawl ran something like this: “W’en I was a little boy I lived on the banks of a creek and I supported my whole family ketchin’ feesh and peddlin’ ’em off amongst the w’ite folks. Ever’ mawnin’ I’d ketch me a string of feesh and off I’d go wid ’em. I forgot to say that this yere creek run at the foot of a mountain seven thousand feet high and most of the w’ite folks lived up on the mountain-side.