"You want me to git this here bill changed?" he said dully. "That is the idea," said Judson Green, patiently. "You are to take it and change it--and I will trail behind you to see what happens. I'm merely making an experiment, with your help, and I'm willing to pay for it." "This money ain't counterfeit?" inquired the raggedy one. "This ain't no game to git me in bad?" "Well, isn't it worth taking a chance on?" cross-fired Green. The pimpled expanse of face lost some of its doubt, and the owner of the face fetched a deep breath. "You're on," he decided. "Where'bouts'll I start?" "Anywhere you please," Judson Green told him. "You said you were hungry--that for two days you hadn't eaten a bite?" "Aw, boss, that was part of the spiel," he confessed frankly. "Right now I'm that full of beef stew I couldn't hold another bite." "Well, how about a drink? A long, cool glass of beer, say? Or anything you please." The temporary custodian of the one-thousand-dollar bill mentally considered this pleasing project; his bleared eye glinted brighter. "Naw," he said, "not jist yit. If it's all the same to you, boss, I'll wait until I gits a good thirst on me. I think I'll go into that show yonder, to start on." He pointed a finger towards a near-by amusement enterprise. This institution had opened years before as "The Galveston Flood." Then, with some small scenic changes, it had become "The Mount Pelee Disaster," warranted historically correct in all details; now it was "The Messina Earthquake," no less. Its red and gold gullet of an entrance yawned hungrily, not twenty yards from where they stood. "Go ahead," ordered Judson Green, confirming the choice with a nod. "And remember, my friend, I will be right behind you." Nothing, however, seemed further from the panhandler's thoughts than flight. His rags fluttered freely in the evening air and his sole-less shoes flopped up and down upon his feet, rasping his bare toes, as he approached the nearest ticket booth. Behind the wicket sat a young woman of much self-possession. By all the outward signs she was a born and bred metropolitan and therefore one steeled against surprise and armed mentally against trick and device. Even before she spoke you felt sure she would say _oily_ if she meant _early_, and _early_ if she meant _oily_--sure linguistic marks of the native-born New York cockney. To match the environment of her employment she wore a costume that was fondly presumed to be the correct garbing of a Sicilian peasant maid, including a brilliant bodice that laced in front and buttoned behind, an imposing headdress, and on both her arms, bracelets of the better known semi-precious metals. Coming boldly up to her, the ragged man laid upon the shelf of the wicket his precious bill--it was now wadded into a greenish-yellow wisp like a sprig of celery top--and said simply, "One!"