Why, only through circumstantial evidence, for you see he had unfortunately once been the proud owner of a flock of fowls that did not have sense enough to roost high.

While he was standing there, rattling the grating and calling for an attendant, a party of visitors came strolling his way.

"I beg your pardon," said the doctor suavely to the first man, "but I'm locked in."

This was really too much for human nature to endure.

"See here, you scoundrels," cried the doctor, excitedly, "call an attendant or I'll have you both in here for life. I'm the superintendent."

"Come away," said one of the strangers, quickly, "we musn't get the poor devil worked up. He may do himself harm," and they passed on down the corridor.

The doctor spent a morning in that cell, and now he says he has more sympathy for his patients.

He assured me that if I ever took a notion to drop in and see him, he would do all he could to make my stay comfortable.

I wonder what he meant, and if that was a mere formula used to calm each new guest at his hotel.

Long experience has made the doctor quite an artist in that line.

Speaking of artists, there's Craigie, who has a studio on Fifth Avenue. Craigie is a friend of mine.

Sometimes I go to see him, when business is bad, and I'm wondering where the money's coming from to pay the month's bill.

Between you and myself, the sight of all those daubs on the walls of his studio, which he considers masterpieces, always makes me feel better.

Misery likes company, and they certainly do look tough.

Recently, while I was lounging there in his Oriental corner, old Dr. Gregg dropped in.

I expected some fun, because the doctor has quite a caustic tongue, you know, and don't mind giving a fellow a rap.

Craigie understood why I winked at him, and I saw blood in his eye while he continued to paint.

The doctor walked around, grunting and making an occasional slurring remark that in another man might have been looked on as an insult.

But we all knew Gregg.

Finally he turned to the artist.

"I say, Craigie, these things which you exhibit on your walls, seeking a purchaser in vain, I suppose may be called failures?"

"Well," remarked the artist, "perhaps you hit the nail on the head in a commercial sense, doctor. You see, men in your profession have the advantage over us poor devils of painters, for while we are compelled to exhibit our failures on the wall, yours are safely planted underground out of sight."

Although I never went through a similar experience I could sympathize with Craigie.

Leaving out the wheel part of it, his condition has usually been a constitutional failing of mine, and was that morning when I called at the office of the Sunday paper.

What a husband that bear must be; not domestic, after my own fashion, for I dearly love to do errands for my wife.

"How can you blame me, my dear," I said, "when I assure you it had a placard fastened to it which read 'Marked Down'? That furniture man is a prevaricator, that's all."

I've met some fellows who like old-fashioned methods, and succeed where the rest with their expensive tackle fail.

One day I had a remarkable run of luck, and that night as we sat around the camp fire, I took occasion to say that my success was due to the superior kind of flies I had used.

"You may flatter yourself on the string you've brought in to-day," said an old fisherman who had joined our party, "but let me tell you, mister, that I saw a Digger Indian catch more fish in one hour in this stream than you've landed all day with your fine flies."

"After the Indian had landed in quick succession a mighty string of salmon trout he suddenly stopped. I called to him to go on with the exciting sport, but he merely smiled grimly and pointed significantly to his head."

"What was the matter with his head?" I asked.

"He had plucked it bald," replied the old man.

There have been some occasions when I've felt myself as though I would like to pluck my hair out, though it is generally on account of some stupidity on my part.

And if you don't mind I will tell you right here, how.

I put my foot in it the other night.

I was so provoked at my stupidity that I came near retiring to a nunnery, or taking a solemn vow not to speak a single word for a week.

Now, I haven't an unusually large mouth, and yet when I related my unfortunate break to Charlie Parsons, the cashier of our bank, he was cruel enough to hint that perhaps some people never could open their mouth without putting their foot in it.

It was a big reception you know, a mixed company, where one was apt to meet any sort of an old star.

Some famous chaps were there, too.

I honored it with my presence.

At the table I chanced to sit next to a learned professor, head of a famous college. And during the meal some fiendish spirit induced me to turn toward him and say:

"Professor, can you tell me who that uncommonly ugly lady is, opposite to you?"

He looked at me with a wicked smile.

"Sir," he said, "she chances to be my wife."

When I was strolling along the Bowery this evening I saw a man come jumping out of a museum that boasts of more freaks than Barnum's show.

"Sure," said he, "the gossoon was mad clane through because I wint in and asked to see one av thim kilt suits," and he laughed so hard that he choked half to death over a set of false teeth.

Speaking of teeth, that was pretty tough on Snyder when his little son and heir took to giving away family secrets so recklessly.

It seems that Snyder had been treating himself to a new set of teeth.

The youngster thought the event of sufficient importance to be related to the minister when he called.

And quite naturally the good dominie, much amused, asked what would become of the old ones.

"Oh, I suppose," replied little James, with a look of resignation; "they'll cut 'em down and make me wear 'em."

"You must ask ma," she immediately replied, "'cause she always takes care of my age in a street car."

Now that was pretty cute, don't you think so?

And my youngest came up smiling recently.

Really, I am worried about that little chap, because I never know whether he is going to be a fool or a humorist.

Perhaps it doesn't matter much.

On this occasion he had had his first ride in an automobile.

A fellow around the corner bought one recently, and as he wants to get in my good graces for some reason or other, he asked Harold to go through the park with him.

That evening I heard my wife, who is very circumspect in all such matters of etiquette, say:

"Harold, did you thank Mr. Gaycrank for that lovely ride he gave you?"

Harold was reading but did not answer.

So she asked him again.

I knew he heard from the way he looked up, but was surprised that he made no reply.

"Harold!" she spoke sharply, now.

"Yes, ma," he replied.

"Did you thank Mr. Gaycrank for taking you riding? Why don't you answer me?"

"I did thank him, ma," whispered Harold, "but he told me not to mention it."

"All right, here's one already."

Catching me in a particularly good frame of mind, when a big check had just come in, he said in a serious tone:

Secretly, I believe he leads a sort of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde life, and that the power behind the throne is in reality his wife, a little woman with a will of her own.

This was proven to my mind the day I was out with him at his country seat.

His coachman came up, looking red in the face, as though out of humor.

Jackman told me Thomas had recently got religion and was about the longest-winded petitioner at prayer he ever knew. But I had been South among the darkies, and remembered one old fellow, at least, who could give him points and still win out.

This was old Uncle Mose, who looked solemn enough for a funeral when I asked him how things were going.

"I declar'," he said, "I got ter be mo' keerful in future—I sho' has!"

"What's the trouble now?" I asked.

"Hullo, 'Dolphus, you'se ain't been a wearin' dem fine patent-leather shoes ob yours no mo'. What am de matter?" I heard him ask.

I had engaged to do a stunt in a certain town down among the North Carolina pines.

Come to find out, there was no way of getting there except by means of a stagecoach, just as in olden days.

I was the only passenger, you see.

There had been considerable talk about a rascal who had robbed right and left, so that I was not feeling very good.

Suddenly the driver drew in his horses.

My knees began to knock together, and my teeth rattled just like those Turkish castanets you've seen dancers use.

The worst had come, and this black-browed villain was about to finish me then and there.

I tried to get to my feet.

"Hold on there!" growled the driver.

His voice trembled, I thought, with rage.

It was the most terrible moment of my life.

"Who are ye?" he next demanded.

I told him my name.

"What ye going to Athens fur?" he asked.

I hastened to inform him that I was the funny man who had been engaged to appear, my object being to let him know I might be worth more coming away from Athens than when bound there.

"How glad I am, mister, to hear that," he said. "I've been shaking in my boots all this yer time thinkin' ye was that land pirate an' meant to murder me, 'cause they say he's even an uglier cuss than me. Shake hands, mister. I declar ye've taken a mighty big load off'n my mind."

I shook hands with the delighted fellow, but lacked the nerve to tell him how badly scared I had been.

But I'm not so proud of my honest looks nowadays.

Whenever I hear a good story in connection with some person of note, I always enjoy it more if I happen to know the party.

They told me about Richard Harding Davis the other night at the club, which amused me not a little.

Ever hear of his adventures with the bull?

Well, it runs something like this, and those who happen to be honored with a personal acquaintance with the famous young American author will appreciate its point best.

The gentleman did not see the bull until he charged, and then like a true soldier of fortune he dropped his dignity and made headlong for the nearest fence.

This he reached in good time, but the bull had the satisfaction of assisting him over.

Though no great damage was done, Mr. Davis' feelings were deeply injured.

Just then, as luck would have it, the owner of the bellowing bovine came running up.

He was angry because Mr. Davis had been trespassing on his property, and Mr. Davis was mad clean through because he was not in the habit of being assisted over fences in that style.

"I'll have you arrested for trespass, sir," exclaimed the farmer, in a rage.

"And I'll have you summoned for keeping dangerous animals at large," cried Mr. Davis.

"You had no business on my land, sir."

"Ah! perhaps you don't know me; I'm Richard Harding Davis, sir!" striking his well-known attitude, and tapping his manly breast significantly.

"Oh," said the farmer, duly impressed, "but Mr. Davis, why didn't you tell that to the bull?"

I was out in a country cemetery lately.

Ever walked through one?

Sometimes you find some queer epitaphs on the old stones.

I read one that told about the virtues of three husbands a certain woman had.

And the monument had evidently been touched up several times, as occasion required.

Some people are very partial to the bang-tails.

I know better now.

Here's where the bars were lowered.

Cribber has a lovely home, and a devoted wife, who has long been one of my wife's best friends.

The other day when she was at the house she took advantage of my wife running upstairs to get her hat on, to put me on the rack.

I was surprised.

What do you think she asked me?

She wanted to know whether the air down on Long Island had malaria in it, and especially around Sheepshead Bay, where the horses ran.

I assured her that so far as I knew it was considered fully as healthy as any other part of the shore.

But I made no attempt to explain matters to the little woman, who doubtless continues to be worried about the health of that gay old deceiver, Cribber, and when I told him about it he bribed me to secrecy with a prize fifty-cent cigar.

To tell you the truth, if there's anything I enjoy it's a prime cigar.

Then I bought a box of my favorites and smuggled it into the house, feeling guilty, yet triumphant.

That night Clara, bless her heart, insisted on opening the package and bringing me the first cigar, which she lighted with her own dear hands.

Then she watched me puff my satisfaction.

It was genuine, I tell you, and mentally I was patting myself on the back.

"How do you like them, my dear?" she asked, anxiously.

"Prime—as good as any I've ever smoked," I replied, honestly.

Every time I pass McGinnity he calls out blessings on my head for the "illegant" box of cigars I gave him.

And I think Harvesthome suspects something.

That will cost me another box to keep him hushed up.

I guess those were about the most expensive common, everyday smokes I've ever indulged in.

Next year I will bribe Clara to let me help her select the present.

But talking of smoking, I wonder whether it really has any effect on the nerves, as the doctors claim.

Because, it's been my experience that some of the nerviest chaps among the rising generation were boys who indulged in cigarettes.

Why, just last week I had occasion to go to a neighboring town down the coast.

It was confusing to a total stranger, the streets ran at such queer angles.

So I determined to seek a little assistance.

There came along a sallow youth, puffing away at a cigarette and looking mighty important.

I held him up.

"Say, young fellow, can you direct me to the bank?" I asked.

"Guess I kin, for a quarter," he replied, coolly.

I liked his nerve.

At the same time I expressed my surprise over the steep demand he made for such a trifling service.

"Huh," he said with a grin, "guess you can't expect a fellow to be a bank director for nothing."

He got that quarter for his smartness.

If only one keeps his ears open on the streets he is very apt to hear many queer things, and sometimes fragments of humor go floating on the breeze.

Try it once.

You'll soon realize that after all, this is something of a gay old world.

Down on Park Row, just as I was passing, an irate customer was hauling a clothing dealer over the coals.

"Say, Isaacson, you said this suit would wear like iron," I heard the customer say.

The Jew shrugged his shoulders.

"Vell, do you mean to dell me it did not?" he asked.

"Hang it, too much like iron. I've only had it a week, and see here how rusty it's become."

The same day I stopped to gaze at an astonishing picture in front of a Fourteenth Street museum, where the freaks are on exhibition day and night.

A wild-looking man came out and hurried away.

He was met by the manager, but broke loose and walked down the street, evidently out of temper.

"See here," called out the proprietor to the man in the ticket office, "what's gone wrong with the glass-eater?"

"Oh! he's struck."

"Wants more money, eh?"

"Nope, getting too toney, that's all."

"What's he up to, now?"

"Refuses what we give him—lamp chimneys ain't fastidious enough for his highness—wants cut glass," said the man in the ticket office.

While I was still smiling about the stuck-up devourer of broken glass, I ran slap into Godkin, who used to be a neighbor of ours.

Some months back he yielded to the alluring blandishments of the Jere Johnson tribe of suburban real estate men, and went over in Jersey to reside.

He certainly looked bad.

His face was pale and his eyes had a far-away expression.

"Old man," I said, anxiously, "what's ailing you? I never knew you to be sick before. Really, you ought to ask some doctor what's the matter."

"It's no use, I know it only too well. It's quick consumption," he replied, with a sigh.

I was really distressed.

Godkin, bluff and hearty, was the last man I should ever have expected to go into a decline.

"Quick consumption!" I repeated, after him, and laying a hand on his arm, sympathetically.

"Tommy, stop rubbing your hands like that. The weather's not cold."

And Young America made reply:

"Well, I ain't tryin' to warm the weather—I'm a warmin' my hands, see!"

I have good cause to remember that day.

It was a red-letter occasion.

I pride myself as being as smart as the next one, and in a long experience seldom come out at the small end of the horn.

But that day—it was a terrible blow to my pride.

An auction attracted me.

However, up to this day, I don't think I've ever been as foolish about bidding things in as Mrs. Gerrold, who got a doorplate with the name Thompson on it, and when I asked what use it could be to her, calmly replied:

"Life is very uncertain. Who knows, Gerrold might be taken away and I might marry some man named Thompson, and this would come in very handy."

But I have purchased a white elephant.

You shall hear.

While prowling around in the auction room I ran across a little antique chest.

It struck my eye as the very thing to keep my papers in, and I thought I might squander a dollar or so for it when the time came to bid.

When I turned back the lid I found the box half-filled with packages of papers, some of which looked like deeds.

Of course I was foolish to think of treasure-trove, for who could say what valuable document a fellow might not unearth among these bundles!

A seedy-looking chap touched me on the arm.

"I beg pardon," said he, "but I hope you won't bid against me on this here chest."

"And why?" I asked, getting my back up at once.

"Because, you see, I used to be a coachman for the family, and when they busted up they owed me a part of my wages."

"Oh, yes, and now you think there may be a bonanza for you here. Well, I guess the track's free to all, and I've taken a fancy to that chest myself," I said, firmly.

He shook his head and looked angry.

The box was put up the next thing.

I've often thought that queer.

That fellow hung on like a bulldog, to the extent of his little pile, but my fighting blood was up, and if I'd been a Vanderbilt I guess I'd have gone a thousand.

I got it, though.

Locking the chest up I left it while I went to the bank and borrowed the money, some fifty-two dollars.

My wife thought I had been to a funeral.

A little later I was of the same opinion myself.

Those stocks and bonds just brought me twenty-two cents for old paper.

Of course it was a set-up game, and they say a sucker is born every minute.

That was my minute, probably.

But I am not always such an easy mark.

I dropped into a wholesale shoe house the other day to see a friend.

Several of the salesmen were perched on boxes, taking it easy, for business had slackened.

"Hello," I remarked, "all pulled for the jury, I see."

"How's that?" asked one.

"Why, sitting on cases," I said.

"You don't dake noddings pack?"

"Never. So help me shiminy gracious."

"It hurts me to see you cry, Gwendoline," I said, in a mournful voice, "but you understand you can't always have your own way, and do as you like."

"Oh, uncle," she sobbed, "how can you be so obstinate?"

They're all alike, these women, and bound to gain their ends by hook or by crook.

And yet sometimes they do have the most remarkable ideas about things.

I was at a reception, and having wandered in the conservatory thought myself alone, until I heard low voices behind some shrubbery.

Of course a pair of turtledoves had secreted themselves there to bill and coo—the cooing would end at the altar, but every married man knows the billing keeps right along.

Pretty soon I heard the happy youth say:

"Dearest, how do you know that you truly love me?"

"Why, George, don't you see, ever since I met you I've grown to admire ears that stand out."

When that girl gets married I don't think she'll need any assistance in her household work.

We changed help the other day.

I hardly know what to make of the new girl.

Sometimes I labor under the impression that she can be as dense as they make them across the water.

Then again she makes some remarks that stagger me, and on my life I'm unable to decide whether she's a fool, or takes me for one.

Her breaks are numerous.

Of course being newly landed she had never tasted ice cream, and as the first spoonful went into her mouth it came out again with violence, and tears coming into her eyes, she gasped:

"Howly mither, it do burn!"

With the determination that has always distinguished my noble line of ancestry, I started in to search from one end of the flat to the other.

This brought me to the kitchen, where lovely Nora was diligently bending her back over the washtubs.

"Can you tell me of my wife's whereabouts?" I asked.

She looked puzzled, but only for a moment, and then smiling broadly, said:

"Faith, to till yees the truth, I do belave they're in the wash, sur."

However, I've run across some things that won't wash.

We had a regular seance one night last week at the house of a great friend of mine called Harper. It was very interesting.

The professor who conducted the exercises was a genius, and he came mighty near converting some of the ladies to his extraordinary way of thinking.

I think Harper's wife was anxious to be a convert.

At any rate I heard her eagerly saying to the gentleman with the long hair and the occult eye:

"Ah!" said he, delighted, "then perhaps you too have had some psychological experience?"

"Indeed, I did—a most remarkable one in particular," she gushed.

"Prophetic?"

"Yes."

"I should greatly like to hear it."

"One night I dreamed that the sky suddenly blazed with light; the heavens were filled with a thronging host, a trumpet sounded, the dead arose from their graves, and then a voice shouted: 'Something terrible is going to happen!'"

"Well?" he asked, "and it came to pass?"

"Why, the very next day our cook left."

I know Harper thought it a dire calamity when he had to subsist for a whole week on provender fashioned after the methods in vogue among cooking-school graduates.

When he was a little younger Harper used to be quite a clubman.

Habits of his bachelor days were hard to shake off.

I had often wondered how he came to suddenly reform, and when my wife told me recently, as a great secret, I have come to feel a new respect for the fertility of resource as shown in the gentler sex.

Mrs. Harper used strategy, where another little woman, less wise, might have tried expostulation and entreaty without effect, for most men dislike the tyranny of tears.

I'll tell you what she did.

Before going to bed she drew two easy chairs close together by the parlor fire.

Then she took one of Dick's cigars and held a match to it, until the room got a faint odor of smoke.

But he never went out another evening without Mrs. Harper.

Now, I call that as smart a bit of diplomacy as Napoleon ever exhibited in his campaigns, don't you?

Harper lives in Brooklyn.

This gives him the privileges of a landed proprietor.

Why, think of it, the nabob even owns a reel of garden hose, and when he comes home weary, in the evening of a hot, dusty day, he can find relaxation to body and mind by sprinkling the streets in front of his house.

The first time I was over there, I found him taking a turn at this thing.

There is a fascination about it, you know.

He seemed to be in tears about something.

"What's wrong, my son? I thought you had gone with your mother on an errand," said Harper.

"She sent me home to change my stockings," he blubbered.

"Why, what's the matter with them?"

"They's put on wrong side out."

"Hold on," I exclaimed, "that's easily remedied, if you will permit me," and I turned the hose on him.

But I must confess, the fellow who was to blame kept his head, and knew just what to do.

He slapped a little stream of his magic mixture on me, and before you could say Jack Robinson, I was saved.

Of course he apologized.

I felt like thrashing him, but, as he was a brother of my best friend, the pawnbroker, I forbore.

"I'm awful sorry, old boy," he said, "but no great damage is done, and I hope you're not angry with me."

"No, but to tell you the truth, I feel awfully put out," I replied.

Harper has another boy, about the age of my youngest, and like all Brooklyn lads he is precocious.

He came in while I was there, crying for keeps.

"All right," spluttered the boy as well as his cut lip would allow him, "but I guess if you'd gone and got whaled you'd blubber, too."

Harper was telling me about Jerry's experience at school. Jerry is the little chap who put his stockings wrong side out that afternoon.

I thought it was rather a joke on Harper, though he refuses to look at it that way.

Well, the teacher gave each of the little kids a good, big healthy word to write down.

Then they were expected to look up the definition in the dictionary, and write out a complete sentence containing it.

This is especially true if he chances to be thinking of finding a house in the suburbs.

Recently I performed this sad rite with Hollingsworth, a legal friend of mine.

Among other places where he took me was a town in Jersey which I dare not name for fear of being lynched.

At any rate it was a dead herring.

Once a boom had set in, and streets were laid off in the most extravagant fashion, but for years the place had been going to the bad.

The real estate man had exhausted his resources, and as a last card he said, desperately:

"But you certainly must admit that the town is well laid out."

"Oh! we agree you've done the proper thing," I remarked. "When a town is dead it's only right to have it well laid out."

That real estate man was offended.

But then levity at a funeral is, I suppose, out of place.

There was a dentist in the town who seemed to have a little ambition, for he planted a sign in front of his office bearing the legend:

"Teeth inserted for five dollars."

"I call that dear," I remarked.

"How so?" asked Hollingsworth.

"Why, I've got a brindle dog out in the country that I'll guarantee to do the job every time for nothing."

We hurried to him, anxious to learn whether he had been injured seriously.

Beyond a few scratches, and a tear or so in his garments, he seemed to be all right.

Of course I warmly congratulated him on his abilities as a prize bull-baiter.

He was a little dazed—I guess you would have been, too, after such a warm experience.

"Say, am I awake—was this thing the genuine article or did it only exist in my imagination?" he asked.

I thought of how he rode that all bovine like a Centaur, and hastened to reply:

"Well, if it wasn't real, it's certainly a striking example of a man being carried away by his imagination, that's all."

On the way home after that trip, Hollingsworth was quite gay.

I've often wondered whether it came from his being so well shaken up by the bull, or because he had successfully evaded the snares of that smart real estate agent.

"Did you notice it was a colored man who gave our friend Joblots his letters at the post office?" he asked.

I replied that I had been surprised to see that the residents of a town in Jersey had a negro postmaster.

"Oh! he's only an assistant. But you'd be surprised still more if you realized his real character."

"Would I?"

"Because everyone knows he's a blackmailer."

"That's serious, isn't it?"

"And it isn't the worst, either."

"Why, he must be a hard citizen—what else does he do?"

"An oculist," he replied.

He looked so seedy that I was surprised.

"An oculist, eh? How do you make that out?" I asked.

"I take the eyes out of potatoes," he said.

Well, I got him a job as scullion in a beanery.

He had the whitest hair and mustache you ever saw, and told me it had come in a night through a scare, that he nearly died from fright—now do you believe that?

Of course you do.

Why, more than once you've seen an old widower's hair suddenly turn from gray to black about five months after he buried the partner of his joys and woes, and he didn't dye from fright, either.

I gloated.

I made a bee line for him.

I plagued him with questions until he was the maddest man in the United States.

Then I went away feeling better.

Say, did you ever get up against the first-class lunatic who is forever telling us about the city man's smartness and the country man's dullness?

Let me tell you an experience of mine that gives the lie direct to such an idea.

It happened one night as I was standing near the ticket box of a swell Eastern theatre.

The play was "The Forty Thieves."

A big, raw-boned Jerseyman strode into the place, as though he had made up his mind to squander some of his hard-earned cash in order to see the really gorgeous performance.

Then there's the elevator boy in our apartment house, who was born and brought up in the city.

He had a little flag pinned on his coat, and I was joking him on his patriotism.

"Everybody nothing, everybody as mad as hornets, you mean. The groom didn't show up, the bride got screeching hysterics, and the father's been prowling round with a shotgun ever since," said my friend.

"But see here—you said it went off well?" I broke in.

"It is, sor."

"Ah! yes, and Mr. Gallagher, is she under your protection?"

"Sure."

"Now, on your oath, do you maintain her?"

"I do."

"And have you ever been married to her?"

"I have not."

The lawyer smiled just here, with the proud consciousness of having rendered that man's testimony not worthy of being taken into consideration.

"That is all, Mr. Gallagher, you may step down," he said.

"One moment, please," remarked the opposing counsel; "with the permission of the court I would like to ask a question."

"Granted," said the judge.

"Mr. Gallagher, remembering that you are on oath to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, be pleased to state the relation which this objectionable female bears to you."

In Central Park I saw a policeman wheeling a baby carriage, with the little cherub sound asleep inside.

Possibly the nurse had eloped with another copper, and this chap was taking the abandoned infant to the station that it might be claimed.

I suppose they make that candid announcement because it's anything but a pleasure to make way with what they serve there.

The other day when I dined there the waiter came round and asked:

"What are you going to have?"

"I guess a beefsteak—but see here, waiter, not a small one. I'm that nervous to-day every little thing upsets me."

"Pardon me for asking, sir," said the waiter, between the courses, "but what's made your eye black and blue? Perhaps you've been having a little affair with the gloves."

"Yes," I replied, carelessly; "I've been going through an operation at the hands of a knockulist, that's all."

Then I turned my attention to the roast chicken, which reminded me of another affair.

You shall hear it.

Teddy O'Toole, who gave me so much amusement last summer while I was sojourning in a mountain town, has been at it again, I hear.

He is a sad case.

What do you think, his last trick was but to play good old Father Ryan for a dinner.

Let me tell you the ingenious way the graceless scamp went about it.

First of all, being hard set by hunger, what does he do but steal a fat young fowl from the priest's henyard.

Having wrung its neck he presented himself before the reverend father, looking sadly repentant.

"That is strange, and complicates matters. Stay, there is one other chance left. Find some poor widow who is in need, and present her with the wretched bird."

"And thin will ye confess me?" demanded Teddy.

"Of a surety, since the good deed will have balanced the evil one," returned the priest.

So away posted that miserable sinner to the house of the Widow McCree, and she only too gladly cooked the bird, since she had the fire handy.

This happened on a recent occasion.

I thought I had enough common sense about me not to be caught by such a picayune piece of tom-foolery, but no doubt at the time my mind was wrestling with some of the weighty questions that daily beset a professional man.

At any rate I fell an easy victim.

And I feel foolish every time I think of the affair.

There were seven gay boys in Snyders when I entered, and having seen me coming, through the glass door, they seemed to be engaged in serious discussion.

"Here he is now—he can settle the argument himself," said Tom Radcliffe.

"What's it all about?" I asked, innocently.

"Why, Craigie here said you understand German, and I told him he was badly mistaken, and that I didn't believe you could translate five words of it."

"Oh! well, I don't pretend to be a scholar, but I've rubbed against some Teutons in my day, and may say without egotism that I've conversed in German," I replied, for it rather galled me to have Radcliffe say that.

"Bosh!" exclaimed my detractor, "I've an idea the simplest sentence would stump you. Say, what does 'Was wollen Sie haben' mean, anyhow?"

"Why, what will you have?"

"Scotch for me," said Radcliffe, and the others said that would suit them to a fine point.

But I don't believe they would have caught me so easily if cares of state had not occupied my mind—you see I was sitting on a new scientific joke, and waiting for it to hatch.

Talking of science, I've found that it pays a man to keep right up with the times.

By observing small things he is able to increase his reputation among those who read less.

Let me prove this to you.

When that eclipse of the sun came I was down among the mountains of North Carolina.

The district was a wild one, and they made considerable moonshine whiskey round there, too; but as I received no salary from the government for looking after these mountain-dew men, I shut my eyes to their little game.

You see I hadn't forgotten all the trouble they gave my friend Bill Nye when he retired to these North Carolina wilds to make up his funny books.

It occured to me that I might have some fun with the ignorant darkies over the eclipse.

Why, I remember one day seeing a poor woman sitting outside her door, and crying while she dipped snuff.

"What's the matter?" I asked.

"They's took my old man an' rided him on a rail," she said.

"That's bad."

"Dat am shore a powerful queer ting," said the old man, scratching his head in perplexity as I rode on, "case, you see, sah, dem chickens waunt eben hatched den, and yet you knowed it all. Powerful strange."

I might have talked all week and that old fellow would never have understood.

I like to go househunting with my wife.

"Why, isn't this just too cute for anything—the dearest little linen closet I ever saw. Now, this is what I call sensible," she said, enthusiastically.

"Excuse me," said the agent, coldly, "but that is not a linen closet, lady; that's the dining-room."

After that I watched Mrs. Suburb eagerly, for somehow I conceived the idea that she was in for a good time.

At another place there were limited accommodations, and when my wife talked of putting Aleck to sleep in the parlor on a wire couch, I entered my solemn protest.

I've raised a family since, and my credit is still good.

Thank you, I appreciate your encouragement, but one experience will probably be quite sufficient for me.

Now, during these halcyon days of yore, I remember there was one dear old lady who seemed to take the greatest interest in my welfare.

I often met her in the street, and she would even stop to chat with me at times.

One day I was looking in at a shop window.

That is, he said I cost them too much money in telegraphic tools, and desired me to condense the details.

That's what the managing editor said.

I spared no expense in hurrying to the spot, and before eleven-twenty sent this brief telegram:

You see, we had been down to the seashore together, and, for the life of me, I couldn't muster up courage enough to ask her the all-important question.

She gave me an opening at last, though perhaps no one but a born humorist could have seen it.

Out on the rocks stood a gay old lighthouse, which seemed to possess unusual interest in the eyes of the young woman.

"It must be a lovely thing to live in such a weird place. Sometime, before I die, I hope I may keep a light house. I believe it would be lovely, don't you?" she said.

Now, to tell the truth, the idea never occured to me before, but when she spoke of it I saw my chance.

Since that time we've had our ups and downs.

But I've never felt toward my better half as that old bear Podgers must, with regard to the partner of his joys and woes.

"Not in the least—not such good luck, my boy. You see our cook has a lien on the place. She's my wife," he said.

You see, these matches between broken-down foreign noblemen and wealthy young American girls gave him an idea that he might make a nice dot.

In due time he was employed by a German count to secure an heiress for him.

The arrangement was that Steiner was to receive ten per cent. of the young lady's estate for arranging the match.

This looked like a snap, always providing Steiner should succeed in finding the heiress, and bring about an understanding.

While visiting a friend, he took me to see the sights of the place, and quite naturally we strolled through the churchyard.

There were lots of old-timers buried there, and some of the inscriptions quite interested me.

Presently we came to a new tombstone.

Then I remembered that down South it was all the fashion for darkies to get the foot of a graveyard rabbit, and carry it around with them; they look on it as a sure thing to keep bad luck away.

Listen!

And I never hear any one carrying on in that way, but what I think of an old Irishman, a farmer who dropped into the office of a country weekly, run by a friend of mine.

"Sit down, Mr. Dooley," said my friend, the editor.

Mr. Dooley took a chair.

"By the way, Mr. Dooley," said my friend, "you have sent me a load of hay in payment for the five years' subscription you owed me for my paper."

"Oi d-d-d-did," declared Mr. Dooley, nodding pleasantly.

"Well, to tell you the truth, Mr. Dooley, my horse can't eat that hay."

Mr. Dooley screwed up his face, and puffed out his cheeks until I thought he would have a fit.

"T-t-t-to tell ye the t-t-truth, mister, no more c-c-can m-m-me g-g-go-go-goat e-e-eat your p-p-p-p-p-paper."

I don't know which was hotter, Mr. Dooley or the editor, when they finished their argument.

You realize there are various methods of warming a man up—for instance, at my hotel one evening a bell-boy came to the desk, after answering a call, and said:

"That fellow up in 999 says he's freezing."

"All right," said the clerk, cheerfully, "we'll soon have him hot enough. Here, take him up his bill."

It is awful, the change made in that man.

Once in a while I understand there is a faint glow among the embers, and a trace of his old-time spirit flashes up, though it is gone almost as quickly.

That must have been the case the evening I was there.

Henry had been reading the evening paper, where many black headlines announced the exciting events of the day.

"One wife too many," I heard her say, sarcastically; "that must of course refer to the doings of another rascally bigamist."

"Not necessarily, my dear," returned Henry, without daring to take his eyes off the paper.

I held my very breath with awe.

But Mrs. Badger, after shooting him one quick look, probably decided that it was a blank cartridge.

Badger told me once, he and his wife ran away and got married by a justice of the peace.

If you never witnessed a civil marriage by an alderman, a mayor, or some such officer authorized to deal out bliss in double harness, well, you don't know what you've missed, that's all.

The first time a magistrate has to officiate upon such a happy occasion, one can hardly blame him for being kind of nervous.

A good fairy sent me to the office of a friend, who is a justice, and it happened he was tying his first double knot.

Having been duly coached, he opened the proceedings all right, and fancied he had plain sailing.

The woman had been duly asked whether she would take the aforesaid man to be her husband, and as that was the identical reason why she was there, she hastened to say that she had no objections, and at the same time took a firmer hold on his arm, as though determined not to let him get away from her.

Perhaps he was so accustomed to having appeals made to him in his official capacity, that it came very natural for him to remark:

"Prisoner at the bar, what have you to say in your defense."

At the same time I thought it rather hard on the young man, but he came up to the scratch smiling and proved an alibi.

A magistrate's office is a good place for picking up humor, but it doesn't compare with the den of an installment book agent.

The manager of the office was hauling a candidate for a position over the coals while I waited for an interview, and quite a few amusing tidbits floated over the top of the partition.

"Ever done any canvassing before, Mr. Jones?"

"Well, I worked a year in a Chicago house where they packed hams for the market."

"You complained of having the toothache—will that prevent you from carrying on business?"

"Not at all, sir. You see it's a holler tooth."

By the way, this same manager of the Book Agents' Supply Company has a most decided aversion to all department stores.

He declares they are ruining the country.

That there is no longer a chance for a young man to set himself up in business, and so forth.

You've heard the changes rung up on that story.

Possibly there's more or less truth about it; but we've got to face a condition, not a theory.

Well, Babcock carries his hatred so far that he detests the very sight and name of the department stores. His wife has the strictest instructions not to purchase anything whatever at these pernicious paradises, and, therefore, when he returned to his home early one day last week and discovered a parcel of groceries on the hall table which bore the hated imprint of Swindell & Getrich, great and tremendous was his virtuous wrath.

His knife was out in an instant, and in another the various packages were ripped up, and condensed milk, eggs, tea, sugar, and the sultanas were mixed together in a fearsome heap on the linoleum.

"Why, what are you doing, Henry?" said his wife, entering at that moment.

Rip, went another packet of Scraped Nutshells for Scraggy Nonentities, and whizz went its contents.

Why, what do you think, while Babcock and myself were sauntering through Central Park recently, up runs a smart little urchin, and sings out:

"Box o' matches, sir?"

"No," said Babcock, loftily, "don't smoke."

An old salt, who had apparently learned to navigate a bicycle fairly well, was working his wobbly way along one of the paths in the park, when, before our eyes, he collided with a lady wheeler.

Now, I liked that old tar.

He was a square-rigged man, and ready to accept what the gods sent him.

That's my style.

I've got my faults, but kicking isn't one of 'em, you bet.

There isn't any chorus to this song, so glide right along to the second verse, professor. Here you are.

Now, I'm pretty good at making excuses myself, but I give the cake to Reddy Moriarty.

You see, he's a fellow working on the subway, under an old friend of mine, a Maj. Dickerson.

Just while I was interviewing the contractor the other morning, who should come along but Moriarty.

The foreman was mad clean through, and I thought only Reddy's ready Irish could save him from a hauling over the coals.

"Faith," says he to me, "time was when I piloted all kinds of ships into harbor, but I've redooced it all down to a system, and the only sort I take over the bar now is schooners sor."

"That's why I sold him," said the dealer. "Didn't I advertise my reasons for selling him?"

"Yes; 'to be sold,' you stated, 'for no other reason than that the owner wanted to get out of town.'"

"Well," says the dealer, "if you can get out of town with him, it will be more than I can do!"

Say, I went on the road with a post office inspector last year.

First post office we struck, a big, strong Irish woman was behind the counter.

"Ahem!" said the inspector. "I thought a man was in charge here!"

"Begorra, ye're roight, he was," said the lady; "but Oi married him, an' Oi'm in charge now. Pfwat is it yez want?"

She was a Tartar, I tell you.

Well, we struck one man who was the homeliest specimen of humanity I've ever seen.

"What are you here for?" says the governor.

"For runnin' away with a woman, yer honor!" says the man.

A few more like him and the women wouldn't go around.

Jiminy Christmas! There's the gong of my auto. My chaffeur's getting impatient. Yes, my time is up. I got ten dollars advanced on it yesterday.