THE ENCHANTED HAT
I looked at the label.
"No." The wrinkle of annoyance sprang from his brow to mine. My opera-hat had cost me eight dollars.
The young fellow laughed rather lamely. "Do you live in New York?" he asked.
I nodded.
"So do I," he continued; "and yet it is evident that both of us have been neatly caught." He thought for a moment, then brightened. "I'll tell you what; let's match for the good one."
I gazed indignantly at the rusty stovepipe. "Done!" said I.
I lost; I knew that I should; and the young fellow walked off with the good hat. Then, with the relic in my hand, a
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