And she looked as if she would topple over on the man next to her. The conductor stooped and looked about the floor of the car. All of us passengers did the same. The pretty young thing shook out her skirts vigorously. All hands lent their aid to lift up the gratings and to search the space beneath them. There was, however, no signs of the cherished emblem. About the time everybody was beginning to feel exhausted the girl suddenly exclaimed: "Oh, I remember now! It's all right. Don't bother any more. I gave it back last night." "City Hall!" yelled the conductor, and I was glad to get off. Last time I rode in a trolley car I got a scare for sure. Honestly now, it gave me a queer feeling up and down my spine when I noticed that the car number was 1313, and what made it worse we were just passing Thirteenth Street at the time. I thought I would mention the fact to the conductor, especially when upon counting the passengers I found there were just that fatal number aboard. It was the thirteenth of the month too, and bless you if that conductor's number wasn't just 3913. So I grimly paraded these significant facts before the attention of the knight of the fare register. "I should think it would make you nervous!" I remarked. "Only once't that I remember," said the conductor, with a grin. [Illustration] "When and how?" "There was thirteen babies in this here car yellin' in thirteen different keys all at the same time," replied the conductor. Some people are so superstitious, you know, always carrying home old horseshoes and nailing them up over the door--why, a pagan nation like the Japanese have the same custom with other embellishments. The fun of it is, while some stoutly maintain the horseshoe must be nailed with the forks pointing upward, there are others just as set in their belief that if a chap wants real good luck to swoop down upon his domicile it is absolutely imperative that the opening must be left below. [Illustration] Why Ketcham actually grew hot under the collar the other day because I sneered when he chanced to mention what horrible bad fortune had come to him since his propitiation to the gods was stolen from his barn door by a wandering dago junk-man. "Don't you believe then that there's good luck in finding a horseshoe?" he demanded, fiercely. "Why, yes, under certain conditions," I replied; "for instance when you find it on the winning horse." Ketcham is quite a gay fellow, and a member of many clubs, so that he can seldom be found home of an evening. [Illustration] I once remonstrated with him, as a true friend should. "See here," I said, seriously, "you are out every night until the 'wee sma' hours.' Isn't midnight late enough for you?" "Well," he replied, "I find when I show up at midnight my wife can talk to me, but when I get home at three, words fail her."