; when it makes twenty you own a blame
good critter or a mighty foolish one, and you want to make dead sure
which; but if it draws a hundred it's playing the races or something
just as hard on horses and dollars, and the first thing you know you
won't have even a carcass to haul to the glue factory.

I dwell a little on this matter of speculation because you've got to
live next door to the Board of Trade all your life, and it's a safe
thing to know something about a neighbor's dogs before you try to pat
them. Sure Things, Straight Tips and Dead Cinches will come running out
to meet you, wagging their tails and looking as innocent as if they
hadn't just killed a lamb, but they'll bite. The only safe road to
follow in speculation leads straight away from the Board of Trade on
the dead run.

Speaking of sure things naturally calls to mind the case of my old
friend Deacon Wiggleford, whom I used to know back in Missouri years
ago. The Deacon was a powerful pious man, and he was good according to
his lights, but he didn't use a very superior article of kerosene to
keep them burning.

Used to take up half the time in prayer-meeting talking about how we
were all weak vessels and stewards. But he was so blamed busy exhorting
others to give out of the fullness with which the Lord had blessed them
that he sort of forgot that the Lord had blessed him about fifty
thousand dollars' worth, and put it all in mighty safe property, too,
you bet.

The Deacon had a brother in Chicago whom he used to call a sore trial.
Brother Bill was a broker on the Board of Trade, and, according to the
Deacon, he was not only engaged in a mighty sinful occupation, but he
was a mighty poor steward of his sinful gains. Smoked two-bit cigars
and wore a plug hat. Drank a little and cussed a little and went to the
Episcopal Church, though he had been raised a Methodist. Altogether it
looked as if Bill was a pretty hard nut.

Well, one fall the Deacon decided to go to Chicago himself to buy his
winter goods, and naturally he hiked out to Brother Bill's to stay,
which was considerable cheaper for him than the Palmer House, though,
as he told us when he got back, it made him sick to see the waste.

The Deacon had his mouth all fixed to tell Brother Bill that, in his
opinion, he wasn't much better than a faro dealer, for he used to brag
that he never let anything turn him from his duty, which meant his
meddling in other people's business. I want to say ri