An' then the policeman says: "This gentleman this morning, Mr. Whelan, dropped into Spiegel's after a little bat for a little nip and a----" "If you please," interrupts the man, "I will tell it. A short while ago"--he faces Mr. Whelan--"I was yunnanimously elected outer sentinel o' my lodge o' Fantail Pigeons. And last night a few friends, wishin' to commemorate the honor, presented me with this pipe--a fine pipe, as you can see--of ebony. And my initials, see--HRC--Henry R. Cotton--on the gold band. And a picture of a fantail--see--engraved on the bowl. You don't happen to be"--the man steps up to Mr. Whelan an' grabs an' squeezes his hand, all the while lookin' him hard in the eye--"a Fantail?" When Mr. Whelan don't say anything, the man gives him another grip, 'most jumpin' off his feet this time to make sure it was a good one. "No," says Mr. Whelan, wrigglin' his fingers apart after the man let go of 'em--"I'm no Fantail." "Oh, well, it's all right--there are some good men who are not. However, I leave the chaps this morning and step into a place down the street for a cup of coffee before I go to the office, and possibly I laid my head down on the table for a minute's nap. However, when I get up to take my coat off the hook where I'd left it, the coat is gone. And in place of it is this disreputable garment--see?" an' he throws down the old coat an' wipes his feet on it. "Spiegel's bartender, Herman," puts in the policeman, "says there was a nold bum came in an' hung his coat next to this gentleman's, an' when he went the coat went; and he must 'a' went pretty quiet, Herman says, for he didn't notice him goin'. An' his description fits an old loafer who hits the free-lunch trail pretty reg'lar 'round here, an' I think I seen him loafin' around here once or twice." "He meant to steal that coat an' pipe," says the man. "If he meant to steal it," says Mr. Whelan, "why d' y' s'pose he left it here?" "Why, I dunno," says the man. "O' course he didn't," says Mr. Whelan. "An', look here"--he sticks the mornin' paper under the man's nose an' says: "What do you think o' Marquard holdin' the Phillies down to two hits yesterday?" "No!" says the man; "two hits? Well, say, he's _some_ boy, hah?" "Is he? Listen to me," says the policeman, shovin' his club between them. "Listen. All I gotter say is, with Mattie an' Jeff an' the Rube goin' right, where'll them Red Sox fit with the Giants in the world's series next month? God help 'em--that's all I gotter say." "The Giants look like a good bet to me, too," says the man, an' soon up the street toward Spiegel's the pair of 'em go, fannin' about the Giants with Mr. Whelan. An' when Mr. Whelan is soon back alone, Bill comes out from behind his flour-barrels an' with his plug o' Comanche Chief in his hand. "I don't s'pose yuh could swap this for chewin' o' the same brand, could yuh, Mr. Whelan?" he says. "Why--you given up smokin'?" says Mr. Whelan.