The Pretty Lady

 He asked the lady in the train
If he might smoke: she smiled consent.

So lighting his cigar and fain
To talk he puffed away content,
Reflecting: how delightful are
 Fair dame and fine cigar.


Then from his bulging wallet he
A photograph with pride displayed,
His charming wife and children three,
When suddenly he was dismayed
To hear her say: 'These notes you've got,--
 I want the lot.
'

He scarcely could believe his ears.

He laughed: 'The money isn't mine.

To pay it back would take me years,
And so politely I decline.

Madame, I think you speak in fun:
 Have you a gun?'

She smiled.
 'No weapon have I got,
Only my virtue, but I swear
If you don't hand me out the lot
I'll rip my blouse, let down my hair,
Denounce you as a fiend accurst .
 .
 .
'
 He told her: 'Do your worst.
'

She did.
 Her silken gown she tore,
Let down her locks and pulled the cord
That stopped the train, and from the floor
She greeted engineer and guard:
'I fought and fought in vain,' she cried.

 'Save me,--I'm terrified!'

The man was calm; he stood aloof.

Said he: 'Her game you understand;
But if you doubt, behold the proof
Of innocence is in my hand.
'
And as they stared into the car
They saw his logic in a flash .
 .
 .

Aloft he held a lit cigar
 With two inches of ash.

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