"Does this line of peoplo begin at the Battery?" was asked at the ticket office window of the Grand Central station the other day. "Out in midocean, I should judge," was the laconic reply of the jumping jack inside the window, who flew f rom side to side playing a wild game of tickets and coins on the broad sill, as the line passed between hini and the brass rail outside. "Move on into the corner to count your change," the stalwart policeman on the outside whispers to any one who dallies a fraction of a second in front of the cage. Mensweepthe wholo of their change together with their left hands. Women invariably stop to count the pieces in a dazed, fumbling sort of way born of suspicion, nervousness, tight gloves and many packages. Now and again a neat little tailor made Boston girl sweeps off the change like any young dude, bettering him by having a neat little puree in her left hand, which snaps viciously as sho tilts her nose and her] oxidized silver umbrella handle toward the big chandelier and passes by. "From ten to fifteen thousand Jeoplepass by between this window and that brass rnrl daily," gasped the jumping jack, wiping the perspiration froia Lis brow as the gong sounded and the last man tore through the gate, his cane punching into the stomach of tha big fat policeman, and his coat tail catching on the eomplacent brasa knob. "The work is divided between three men." "Don't 3-0U find coins very inconvenient ror hasty handling?" "An infernal nuisance. I wish all money was m cardboard, like tickets. We haveso many pennies, too, because we charge a fixed rate per mile."- New York Sun.