The other day I was petitioned to use my influence in a domain where I possess none. A native typesetter, whose pleasant smile discloses ever and anon his fondness for the betel nut, was the suppliant. I had always had a sneaking liking for the man. He is more alert, more cheerful than most of his dark-skinned fellows, so I did what I could for him, though that was precious little. At any rate, he got what he wanted and, mistakenly, I must confess, gave me the credit for his good fortune. He had been off work with tooth trouble, and it was a question of the continuance of pay during his absence. He would have fallen upon my neck and embraced me, I'm sure, had this been within the bounds of propriety. I was "the finest gentlemen in the world, and he prayed devoutly that God would grant me a long spell of enjoyment on this planet," and other nice things. He was Gratitude incarnate.
Text read from the printed page and cleaned; old type leaves the occasional error.