When near the corner of West Street I turned around just in time to see a ragged boy pick up a pocket-book.

As the afoursaid boy started to run off, a well dressed lookin’ man ketched him by the cote coller.

“What in thunder are you about?” says the boy.

“That pocket-book belongs to this old gentleman,” said the man, pintin’ to me.  “I saw him drop it.”

“No it don’t, nether,” said the boy, tryin’ to break away, “and I want yer to let go my cote coller.”

The infatuated youth then tried his level best to jerk away, while his capturer yanked and cuffed him, ontil the boy sot up a cryin’.

I notissed as the youth turned around that he partly opened the wallet, which was chock full of greenbax.

A thought suddenly struck me.  That ’ere boy looked as if he was depraved enuff to steel the shoe-strings off’n the end of a Chinaman’s cue, so the Monongohalian’s hair woulden’t stay braided.

Thinks I, if the young raskel should keep that pocket-book, like as not he mite buy a fashinable soot of close and enter on a new career of crime, and finally fetch up as a ward polertician.

I must confess, that as I beheld that wallet full of bills, my mouth did water rather freely, and I made up my mind, if wuss come to wusser, I would not allow too much temptashun to get in that boy’s way.  The man turned to me and says: 

“Stranger, this is your pocket-book, for I’le swear I saw you drop it.”

What could a poor helpless old man like me do in euch a case, Mister PUNCHINELLO?  That man was willin’ to sware that I dropped it, and I larnt enuff about law, when I was Gustise of the Peece, to know I coulden’t swear I diden’t drop it, and any court would decide agin me; at the same time my hands itched to get holt of the well filled wallet.

I trembled all over for fear a policeman, who was standin’ on the opposite corner, mite come over and stick in his lip.

But no! like the wooden injuns before cigar stores, armed with a tommyhawk and scalpin’ knife, these city petroleums, bein’ rather slippery chaps, hain’t half so savage as they look.

When the boy heerd the man say I owned the pocket-book he caved in, and began to blubber.  Said he, whimperin’: 

“Well—­I—­want—­a—­re—­ward—­for—­findin’ the—­pocket-bo—­hoo—­ok.”

The well dressed individual, still holdin’ onto the boy, then said to me: 

“My friend, I’me a merchant, doin’ bizziness on Broadway, at 4-11-44.  You’ve had a narrer escape from losin’ your pocket-book.  Give this rash youth $50, to encourage him in bein’ honest in the futer, and a glorious reward awaits you.  Look at me, sir!” said he, vehemently; “the turnin’ pint of my life was similar to this depraved youth’s; but, sir! a reward from a good lookin’, beneverlent old gent like you, made a man of me, and to-day I’me President of a Society for the Penny-Ante corruption of good morrils,’ and there hain’t a judge in the city who wouldn’t give me a home for the pleasure of my company.”