The New York _Dramatic News_ in a late number contained a funny story about Harry Courtaine and John E. Ince, both gentlemen well and favorably known in the profession. Mr. Ince had solemnly professed his non-belief in good or bad luck, after which he was invited by Mr. Courtaine to walk with him. The _News_ tells the story in this happy style: To a query as to where he was going, Mr. Courtaine replied that he was to make an engagement for the coming season with a gentleman now awaiting him at the Union Square Hotel, "and I want a witness," he said, "but I wouldn't have one of those superstitious fellows with me for all the world. They make me ashamed of myself with their besotted--" Mr. Courtaine stopped suddenly and turned deadly pale. "Here, here!" he cried, "cross fingers, quick!" and seizing Mr. Ince's hand, he crossed the forefinger of his own over it while a tramp with one arm slouched by them. "I saw him over my left shoulder, too," murmured Mr. Courtaine. "Dear me! dear me! how exceedingly annoying!" "What's the matter?" asked Mr. Ince, whom the performance of his companion had thrown into a profound amazement. "Don't you feel well? What is it?" [Illustration: MAUD GRANGER.] "Nothing," replied Mr. Courtaine, in some confusion. "A slight twinge of my old gout. Those fellows on the square are enough to give a man the colic, with their eternal talk about Jonahs, unlucky houses, hoodoo managers and the like. I don't know anything I detest more than superstition," said Mr. Courtaine, with indignant fervor. "I think it is a lower and more debased vice than habitual drunkenness. If there was a law passed to make it a capital offence, I'm d--d if I wouldn't serve as hangman without asking a cent pay." At this juncture an old woman, enveloped in an odorous combination of rags and liquor, seized Mr. Courtaine by the sleeve and rolled two eyes, which squinted across at each other almost at right-angles, towards the sky, as she whined:-- "Please, good gentleman, a penny to buy a poor widow bread. Only a penny, dear, handsome gentleman, and God go with you." Mr. Courtaine dove into his pocket to respond to this artful appeal, and as he did so, glanced at the old woman. Then he began a performance which plunged his companion in a stupor of wonder. Crossing his forefingers, he deliberately spat upon the pavement over them, and then turning in a circle, repeated the expectoration at each of the four points of the compass. This accomplished, he mopped the perspiration from his pallid brow, and shuddered visibly. "It's Friday, too," he muttered. "D--n it all! I might have known it." "Known what?" asked Mr. Ince. "Let's go down to Theiss's and get a beer," said Mr. Courtaine abruptly and irrelevantly. "You'd better see your man first," suggested the prudent Mr. Ince. "Oh, no. He can wait; besides I think it's too late to catch him in now. I'll hunt him up to-morrow. Come along."