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“You’ve hit it; but keep quiet! Don’t let us go too far before we’re sure the bird is in our cage. He’s worth attending to; I’m not sure he’s got the abstracted money about him; but when he settles with you, just notice the size of his wallet, and its contents; may have an officer handy, if you like. If he has a large roll of notes, especially on the Traders’ Bank, nab him, and keep him until I come,” said A.

“Where do you stop, sir?” inquired the landlord.

“At the —-, Chestnut street,” A. replies.

“Shall be attended to, sir, I warrant you. Is there a reward out, sir, for this person?” says the landlord.

“O! no; it has all been kept quiet. Policy, you see; he left in such a hurry, he thought he’d be lost sight of in this crowd here in your city. If he has the money, we’ll make ‘a spec,’ you understand?”

“I see, I see,” said the befogged landlord; “I’ll keep a sharp look out for him, and let you know the moment I find him fairly out.”

That afternoon, as B. called for his bill at the bar of —-‘s Hotel, the landlord was about, all in a twitter, with two policemen in the distance, and sundry especial friends hanging about, to whom the landlord had unbosomed the affair. All were anxiously watching the result of the business. B. hands forth his capacious wallet, stuffed with ” documents ” of the Traders’ Bank, of Boston,–from which institution he had drawn a pile of funds, to invest in coal at Richmond,–and no sooner did B. place an X, of the Traders’ Bank, upon the bar, than the excited landlord’s eyes danced like shot on a hot shovel, and giving the constables the cue, poor B. found himself waited upon, in a brace of shakes, by those two custodians, while the landlord grabbed the wallet out of B.’s hand, with a suddenness that completely mesmerized him.

“Gentlemen,” says the landlord to the officers, “do your duty!”

“Why, look here!” says B., squirming about in the grasp of the officers, and reaching over for the landlord and his wallet–“what the thunder are you about? Come, I say, none of your darn’d nonsense now; let me go, I tell you, and hand back that wallet, Mister —-.”

But B. was “a goner.” They favored him with no explanation, of course, and were about trotting him forth to the Mayor’s office, when a well known Anthracite merchant came in, in quest of B. Some inquiry followed, explanation ensued, and the result was, that after poor B. got a little reconciled to the joke, he joined issue with a laughing chorus at the expense of the sold landlord, who, in consideration of all hands keeping mum, put the party through a course of juleps.

I may as well observe, that I regret there is no particular moral to this sketch.