BUYING A TIN CUP.

THE town was dozing in the drowsy sunlight of a dull August afternoon, when a dejected looking man, with the appearance of one who was making desperate efforts to appear unconcerned, stepped into a prominent and fashionable dry goods establishment up on Jefferson Street. Scorning the proffered stool, he braced himself firmly against the counter, and looking the polite and attentive clerk fixedly in the eye, broke the impressive silence by abruptly demanding:

“Gimme tinkup!”

“We do not keep them, sir,” smilingly replied the affable clerk, and the glare of suspicion with which that man regarded him was sufficient to chill the blood of a snake.

“Donkeep tinkups?” he asked, quickly and distrustfully.

“No, sir,” replied the clerk, “we have no tin cups. This is a dry goods store. You will find the tin store farther up the street.”

“Few donkeep notinkups—watchkeep?” demanded the man, imperiously.

“We have grenadines, calicos, bareges, gros grain ribbons, tarletan, velvets, moire antique, empress cloth, pongee and Japanese silks——”

“Shut her off!” ejaculated the man, “Puttit tup! Puttit tup!”

He turned away with a dignified gesture, and walked away with stately, though uncertain strides, and dived into the Plunder store, where he startled the proprietor by the same urgent demand for the “tinkup,” and he was finally piloted into Kaut & Kriechbaum’s, where he bought his “tinkup,” which he fell down on before he got to the Barret House corner, mashing it flat as a pie pan. He was helped into his wagon, and as he drove away the last the citizens saw of him he was holding the flattened tin cup before him, exclaiming ruefully:

“Devlofa—lookin—tinkupthatis!”