The handkerchief with its precious
contents shot in a graceful arc towards the deck, fell short by a good
six feet and dropped into the water, where it unfolded like a lily,
sending twenty-dollar bills, ten-dollar bills, five-dollar bills, and
an assortment of ones floating over the wavelets. The cheers of the
citizenry changed to cries of horror. The girl uttered a plaintive
shriek. The boat moved on.
It was at this moment that Mr. Oscar Swenson, one of the thriftiest
souls who ever came out of Sweden, perceived that the chance of a
lifetime had arrived for adding substantially to his little savings. By
profession he was one of those men who eke out a precarious livelihood
by rowing dreamily about the waterfront in skiffs. He was doing so now:
and, as he sat meditatively in his skiff, having done his best to give
the liner a good send-off by paddling round her in circles, the
pleading face of a twenty-dollar bill peered up at him. Mr. Swenson was
not the man to resist the appeal.
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