“Hadn’t you better sell your coupons to him?” asked the farmer, who was quite prepossessed in favor of the gentlemanly stranger. “No, sir; I was instructed to sell in Wall Street, and I prefer to do so.” “Oh, just as you please,” said Mr. Chase. “You will lose by it, but that’s your affair. Good-morning, gentlemen. I have a friend in the next car.” So saying, he bowed, and left the car. “Well, my business was easily done,” said the farmer. “Will you allow me to look at the bills he gave you?” asked Harry. “Sartain! Why?” and the farmer drew out his wallet. Harry took one of the bills in his hand and examined it carefully, but he was not an expert, and could not judge whether it was good or not. “Don’t you think it’s good?” asked the farmer, uneasily. “I presume it is; but I didn’t like the looks of the man you had dealings with.” “He is of good family,” said the farmer. “He says he is,” responded Harry, significantly, “and I hope it’s all right. We’ll wait till the conductor comes along, and ask him about the bills.” Fifteen minutes elapsed, however, before that official made his rounds, and during that time the train stopped at two stations. At one of these Harry’s suspicions were increased by seeing that Mr. Chase got out. At last the conductor appeared, and Harry passed him the bill. “Is that bill good?” he asked. The conductor held it up to the light, and shook his head. “No,” he said; “it’s one of a quantity of counterfeits that has lately made its appearance. Where did you get it?” “It belongs to me,” said the farmer, his honest countenance exhibiting much distress. “I took it in payment for some cowpons.” “Who gave it to you?” An explanation was given. “I noticed the man,” said the conductor. “He is a well-known swindler. Have you got any more?” The others were exhibited. Out of them all the conductor declared that only the one-dollar bill was genuine. Probably it had not been thought worth while to counterfeit a bill of so low a denomination. “Oh, what’ll Sarah say?” ejaculated the distressed farmer. “What a tarnal fool I’ve been! She wanted me to buy her a nice dress out of it, and I’ve only got a dollar left!” “Perhaps the man may be caught,” suggested Harry. “I don’t believe it. Simon Jones, you ain’t fit to go around alone. You’re as green as—as—a gooseberry!” Harry pitied him, but was unable to offer any adequate consolation. “Will you give me your name and address?” he said. “And, if I can hear anything of your coupons, or the man that swindled you, I’ll write and let you know.” “Will you? I’m obleeged to you,” said the farmer, who had formed quite a high idea of our hero’s sagacity from his declining the trap into which he himself had fallen. “My name is Simon Jones, of Crabtree Hollow, Connecticut.” Harry entered it in a little memorandum book which he carried. At length the great city was reached, and the crowd of passengers dispersed in different directions.