“I am afraid I can’t take it,” he said.

“Why not?  I managed to.”

However, I had to give him one without a hole before he would let me out of his shop.  Next time I was more thoughtful.  I handed three to the cashier at my restaurant in payment of lunch, and the ventilated one was in the middle.  He saw the joke of it just as I was escaping down the stairs.

“Hi!” he said, “this shilling has a hole in it.”

I went back and looked at it.  Sure enough it had.

“Well, that’s funny,” I said.  “Did you drop it, or what?”

He handed the keepsake back to me.  He also had something of reproach in his eye.

“Thanks, very much,” I said.  “I wouldn’t have lost it for worlds; Emily—­But I mustn’t bore you with the story.  Good day to you.”  And I gave him a more solid coin and went.

Well, that’s how we are at present.  A more unscrupulous person than myself would have palmed it off long ago.  He would have told himself with hateful casuistry that the coin was none the worse for the air-hole in it, and that, if everybody who came into possession of it pressed it on to the next man, nobody would be injured by its circulation.  But I cannot argue like this.  It pleases me to give my shilling a run with the others sometimes.  I like to put it down on a counter with one or two more, preferably in the middle of them where the draught cannot blow through it; but I should indeed be surprised—­I mean sorry—­if it did not come back to me at once.

There is one thing, anyhow, that I will not do.  I will not give it to a waiter or a taxi-driver or to anybody else as a tip.  If you estimate the market value of a shilling with a hole in it at anything from ninepence to fourpence according to the owner’s chances of getting rid of it, then it might be considered possibly a handsome, anyhow an adequate, tip for a driver; but somehow the idea does not appeal to me at all.  For if the recipient did not see the hole, you would feel that you had been unnecessarily generous to him, and that one last effort to have got it off on to a shopkeeper would have been wiser; while if he did see it—­well, we know what cabmen are.  He couldn’t legally object, it is a voluntary gift on your part, and even regarded as a contribution to his watch chain worthy of thanks, but—­Well, I don’t like it.  I don’t think it’s sportsmanlike.

However, I have an idea at last.  I know a small boy who owns some lead soldiers.  I propose to borrow one of these—­a corporal or perhaps a serjeant—­and boil him down, and then fill up the hole in the shilling with lead.  Shillings, you know, are not solid silver; oh no, they have alloy in them.  This one will have a little more than usual perhaps.  One cannot tie oneself down to an ounce or two.

We set out, I believe, to discuss the morals of the question.  It is a most interesting subject.

The Happiest Half-Hours of Life