The tramp was not drunk, and his appearance was not that of a drinking man. His features were refined and clear-cut in the moonlight; and his voice--well, his voice was queer. It sounded like a man talking plainly in his sleep. The Post Man concluded that his mind was unbalanced. The tramp spoke again. "I said I had plenty of money," he continued, "and I have. I will show a few--a very few of the wonders that you respectable, plodding, well-dressed people do not imagine to exist. Look at this ring." He took from his finger a curious carved ring of beaten copper, wrought into a design that the moonlight did not suffer to be deciphered, and handed it to the reporter. "Rub that ring thrice with the thumb of your left hand," said the tramp. The reporter did so, with a creepy feeling that made him smile to himself. The tramp's eyes beamed, and he pointed into the air, following with his finger the movements of some invisible object. "It is Artamela," he said, "the slave of the ring--catch!" He swept his hollowed hand into space, scooping up something, and handed it to the reporter. "See!" he said, "golden coins. I can bring them at will in unlimited numbers. Why should I beg?" He held his empty hand with a gesture toward the reporter, who pretended to accept its visionary contents. The tramp took off his hat and let the breeze sift through his tangled hair. "What would you think," he said, "if I should tell you that I am 241 years old?" "Knock off a couple of centuries," said the reporter, "and it will go all right." "This ring," said the tramp, "was given me by a Buddhist priest in Benares, India, a hundred years before America was discovered. It is an inexhaustible source of wealth, life and good luck. It has brought me every blessing that man can enjoy. With such fortune as that there is no one on earth that I envy. I am blissfully happy and I lead the only ideal life." The tramp leaned on the railing and gazed down the bayou for a long time without speaking. The reporter made a movement as if to go, and he started violently and faced around. A change had come over him. His brow was lowering and his manner cringing. He shivered and pulled his coat tight about him. "Wot wuz I sayin'?" he said in a gruff, husky voice. "Wuz I a talkin'? Hello, there, mister, can't you give a feller a dime to get him some supper?" The reporter, struck by the transformation, gazed at him in silence. The tramp muttered to himself, and with shaking hands drew from his pocket something wrapped in paper. He unrolled it, took something from it between his thumb and finger and thrust it into his mouth. The sickly, faint, sweet odor of gum opium reached the reporter. The mystery about the tramp was solved. (_Houston Daily Post_, Sunday morning, May 24, 1896.) A Houston Romance