a day or two at a time, and with very little luggage. His big straight cane was always in his hand, however, and he was very careful to place it where it would not be mistaken for another's. For without this, how could he get along with his business? He couldn't indeed!
Mr. Simon Bugg was not long in discovering old Sam's partiality for this clumsy looking staff, and the circumstance interested him. He travelled with Sam. Met him on the road. Saw him in the country taverns, in the Bowery, in the beer-saloon; drank with him, chatted with him, and got acquainted with him. And one day Mr. Bugg saw old Sam quietly shove a ten-dollar counterfeit note upon a poor hotel-keeper. He watched him, and saw the respectable looking old gentleman try the same trick in another place, and another.
And Mr. "Simon Bugg" went for "Lame Sam," accordingly.
The ancient reprobate was at this time upon his old stamping-ground, in New Jersey. Bugg had "spotted him" at the little hotel, first. He went into that establishment just as the old gent left, where he inquired if Sam had spent any money there.
"Yes," responds the landlord, "fifty cents. He's a cussid ole miser—never stays over night."
"What money did he give you?" asks Bugg.
"A ten-dollar note."
"Have you got it now?" says Bugg.
"Yes. Here it is." And the hotel man produces it.
"It's a counterfeit," says Bugg, quietly.
"A what!" exclaims the tavern-keeper.
"A 'dead-beat,' old fellow. Not worth a penny."
"Dammim," begins the landlord—
"Quiet, now, my friend. I am a United States Detective
