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“Well, Mr. Smith,” said Mr. Hart, “I suppose I shall have to hire somebody, and as I don’t believe in taking a raw hand from the country, I will take one who understands all about it. I’ll engage you; so go to work.”

“Thank you, Mr. Hart.” And so the master became the man, and the man the master.

“Poor Smith, he’s down!” cries one old habitue of the ‘General Washington’ bar-room. “I carkelated he’d gin out afore long, if he let other people ‘tend to his business instead of himself.”

“I didn’t like that fellow Absalom, no how,” says another old head; “he’s ’bout skin’d Smith.”

“Well, Smith kin be savin’, he’s larnt something,” says a third, “and oughter try to get on to his pegs again.”

But when Absalom gave his “free blow,” these fellows all “went in,” partook of the landlord’s hospitality, and hoped–of course they did–that he might live several thousand years, and make a fortune!

Time slid on–Smith was attentive, no bar-keeper more assiduous and devoted to the toddy affairs of the house, than Jerry Smith, the pseudo-bar-keeper of Absalom Hart. Absalom being landlord of a popular drinking establishment, was surrounded by politicians, horse jockies, and various otherwise complexioned, fancy living personages. Ergo, Absalom began to lay off and enjoy himself; he had his horses, dogs, and other pastimes; got married, and cut it very “fat.” One day he got involved for a friend, got into unnecessary expenses, was sued for complicated debts, and so entangled with adverse circumstances, that at the end of his third year as landlord, the sheriff came in, and the “General Washington” again came under the hammer.

Now, who will become purchaser? Every body wondered who would become the next customer.

“I will, by George!” says Smith. And Smith did; he had worked long and faith fully, and he had saved something. Smith bought out the whole concern, and once more he was landlord of the “General Washington.”

Absalom was cut down, like a hollyhock in November–he was dead broke, and felt, in his present situation, flat, stale, and unprofitable enough.

“Mr. Smith,” said Absalom, the day after the collapse, “I am once more on my oars.”

“Yes, Ab, so it seems; it’s a queer world, sometimes we are up, and sometimes we are down. Time, Ab, works wonders, as you once very forcibly remarked.”

“It does, indeed, sir.”

“We have only to keep up our spirits, Ab, go ahead; the world is large, if it is full of changes.”

“True, sir, very true. I was about to remark, Mr. Smith–“

“Well, Ab.”

“That we have known one another–“

“Pretty well, I think!”

“A long time, sir–“

“Yes, Ab.”

“And when I was up and you down–“

“Yes, go on.”

“I gave you a chance to keep your head above water.”

“True enough, Ab, my boy.”

“Now, sir, I want you to give me charge of the bar again, and I’ll off coat and go to work like a Trojan.”

“Ab Hart,” said Smith, “when you came to me, you was so green you could hardly tell a crossed quarter from a bogus pistareen–the ‘run of the till’ you learnt in a week, while in less than a month you was the best hand at ‘knocking down’ I ever met! There’s fifty dollars, you and I are square; we will keep so–go!”

Poor Absalom was beat at his own game, and soon left for parts unknown.