LIGHT LITERATURE.

Hawera & Normanby Star, Volume I, Issue 55, 20 October 1880, Page 4

LIGHT LITERATURE.

A TEST OF HUMANITY.

He was a gaunt, shabby-looking man, about 40 years of age. His hair was long, and fall of chips and feathers, denoting that he had reposed on the previous night either in a hencoop or a sawmill. His hat he carried in his hand to keep it from wearing out, he had no heels on his boots, and his coat was buttoned up to the top of his head to keep the world in ignorance of the melancholy fact that his earthly possessions didn't include such a thing as a dress shirt. He wore no suspenders, but entrusted, the proper attitude of his trowsers to the omnipotence of a dog-chain, which was wound around his waist several times and tied in a hard knot — in fact, a knot harder than the character of Beaconsfield.

He sauntered into the restaurant with a dolce far niente swagger, approached the proprietor, who was manipulating the in-going shekels, and said —

" Suppose an old, decrepit individual should eornß m and say he was hungry and wanted something to eat, what would you say ?" "Kick him out," responded the cashier, savagely. " Wouldn't you even give him a cup of coffee which only cost you a penny ?" "No, sir."

" Suppose a sick woman should come in and ask you for a glass of ice water, would you give it to her ?" "No, sir."

" If you owned a big shop, and one of the clerks lost his wife, would you let him off to take part in the obsequies ?"

" No, sir ; not much."

"If you were under sentence of death," continued the shabby man, " and could get clear for twopence, would you pay the money off, hand ?" "Get away from here," "shouted the restaurateur, savagely, "or I'll kick you inside out."

The man moved off a step or two and said —

" I have just walked 200 miles without sleep or food." " Tou can't get anything here. " " Can't I even have a draught from the kitchen?"

" No, you can't ; get out.

"All right," said the apparent tramp, pulling a roll of notes from his pockets, " I just wanted to see if you were humane. I only patronise sentimental, good-natured eating-house-men. Now I'm goingr across the way to put on my dress suit, and then I'm going to the opposition hash-house to invest. That's the kind of man. I am."

A. careworn immobility jested on the countenance of the restaurateur as the man in the apocryphal clothes meandered.