How My Pocket Was Picked,

—or—

THE MAN WITH THE FOXHEAD RING

“Ain’t you afraid somebody will pick your pocket?”

The speaker was my cousin Frank, with whom I was going to see Forrest.

It was the first appearance of that tragedian for over a year, and a tremendous rush when the doors were opened, was the consequence. Expecting this, we had started early, my cousin who by the way, was a young Countryman, when he saw the struggling crowd that entirely filled the lobby, knowing that I had about two hundred pounds, in bank notes, in my breast pocket, very naturally asked me the preceding question.

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