JOHN BURT
:By FREDERICK
UPHAM ADAMS
Author of “The Kidnapped Millionaires," “Colonel Monroe's Doctrine,” Etc.
COPYRIGHT. 1902, BY
Frederick Upham Adams
All rights
reserved
COPYKIGBT, 1903. BT
A. J. Dbbxbl Biodlb
CHAPTER FOUR—Continued.
Jim aimed a blow at John’s head,
which was parried. John swung to
the chin, and the next instant Jim
clenched and both fell eight feet into
the water.
The pool was d«:ep. and it seemed
to Jim as if they never would come
to the surface. When he did, and had
gasped for breath, a pair of strong
hands gripped his neck and he went
down again. The w’ater sang in his
ears, the world grew black around
him. Then it suddenly became light.
The cool and splendid air filled his
nostrils, and a voice sounded in his
ears:
‘V ' «Jug!i,’ or down you go
again: *
‘‘E-nough! E-e-e-nough! I’ll quit.”
spluttered Jim Blake, throwing his
arms about wildly.
With one hand firmly gripping Jim
Blake’s collar John Burt swam ashore
with the other. It was ten minutes
before Blake recovered his breath,
then they shook hands with the grav
ity of trained pugilists.
A week later John met Jim and
was told of a flogging he had re
ceived from his father, who was no
torious ns the village drunkard.
Thereupon developed in John Burt
and James Blake that strong friend
ship so frequent betw een boys of con
trasting natures. They seemed to
have only two traits in common—
both were frank and both generous.
When Jim Blake was seventeen
years old, he decided to run away
from home. The two boys talked it
over many times. To the scanty
hoard in Jim’s possession John Burt
added thirty-five dollars—all the
money he had saved from sums giv
en him at various times by Peter
Burt. So, with forty odd dollars in
his pocket, and with tears in his
handsome eyes, Jim Blake shook
hands with John Burt and went out
into the world to -j^ek his fortune.
ful spot he saw an old man run from
the Burt yard and plunge into the
wreck. A moment later he saw some
thing in the rescuer's hands. A
crumpled blue hat above dark curls
showed plain in contrast to the white
hair of the aged giant, who handled
the little figure as if it were a feath- I
er. laid it gently by the side of the
road, and again darted into the twist
ed mass.
General Carden breathed a silent
prayer. He was a few rods away
when Jessie moved slowly, lifted her
head and sprang to her feet.
• I'm not hurt, papa!” she exclaimed
bravely. "I am not hurt a bit. Oh,
what has happened?”
“Thank God! Thank God!” He
caught Jessie in his arms, gazed
fondly into her eyes, and tenderly
[ embraced her.
General Carden turned to the aid of
Peter Burt. Tangled in the. harness,
a horse was plunging and struggling
in an attempt to regain his feet. The
other horse was dead, and beneath
his shoulder was pinioned the leg of
a young man. Blood was trickling
down his face, and he lay in the dust
of the road, limp and deathlike. His
right hand still grasped the bit; his
head was near the hoofs of the fran
tic animal.
“Hold that horse’s head down!” or
dered the old man. General Carden
threw his weight on the beast’s neck.
\ Jessie was hovering near, wringing
j her hands in pity and excitement.
“When I lift that horse will you
< drag my boy's leg from under?”
“Yes. sir; oh, hurry, sir!”
Crouching down, Peter Burt threw
the head of the dead animal across
his shoulder. He grasped the trace
with one hand and the foreleg with
the other. In his prime he had raised
twelve hundred pounds, dead wreight.
With a hea% e of his massive should
ers he raised the forward part of the
1 horse clean from the ground, and Jes
ZTWX/Gff,’ OP JXDW7V KOCS GO j4&WV7”
Little did these two boys think, as
they parted that October afternoon,
that their acts and passions and lives
would one day be woven by fate into
a web of marvelous workmanship.
CHAPTER FIVE.
The Runaway.
Three years elapsed before Jessie
Carden returned to the Bishop farm.
John Burt was now twenty years old,
and had successfully passed the ex
amination which admitted him to
Harvard. General Carden came with
Jessie, delighted with the prospect of
a week's rest in old house.
General Carden was an enthusias
tic horseman. Jessie was still un
packing her trunks when her father
sent word that the carriage was
ready, and that she was to drive with
him. A few minutes later they were
speeding down the old beach road.
They drove for miles along the wind
ing. shaded roads. The breeze came
cool and salt from the ocean, and the
air was fragrant with the breath of
summer.
A bit of the harness had become
unbuckled. Handing the reins to Jes
sie. General Carden stepped to the
ground to adjust it. His feet had
hardly touched the ground when a
prowling hunter, a few' rods away,
discharged a gun. The report was
terrifying, and the affrighted horses
leaped ahead. Jessie was thrown vi
olently backward, the lines slipping
from her hands. General Carden
sprang for the horses’ heads—an in
stant too late. He caught one
glimpse of his daughter’s white face
as she swept past him. The agony
of years was compressed into the
succeeding moments.
The frenzied team dashed down the
steep grade at appalling speed. At
the base of the hill, and almost in
front of the Burt farmhouse, was a
sharp curve. Then the road skirted
the cliffs for a quarter of a mile. Be
yond lay a crooked hill, lined with
ragged rocks—the most dangerous
slope for miles around.”
Through the cloud of dust the old
soldier saw the team as it passed the
.old house. A few rods beyond, a man
lightly vaulted a fence and darted
towuVds the road. General Carden's
eyes were blurred, but he saw a
flash of blue and white, as if some
, thing had been hurled in front of the
maddened team. It clung to the head
of the off horse, and was tossed back
and forth by the frantic animal. For
an instant the figure seemed beneath
the hammering hoofs. Could any
human being hold fast in such a po
sition.
At the torn in the road the general
distinctly saw a man clinging to the
horses’ bits, bruised by the swaying
pole—a pigmy who dared check the
flight of giants. They swerved
sharply at the curve. The oh norse
s turn hied, lurched sideways and fell.
There Was a crash; the sickening
t sound of splintered wood and clinking
steel; then a silence, as the d?st lift
lagged outlines
;e.
neared the fete
sie quickly released the pinioned
limb of the' motionless young man.
The old man gathered the body in
his arms, and carried it to a grass
plot by the side of the road. He rest
ed his gray head for a moment on the
young man’s chest, and heard the
faint flutter of the heart. In accents
which thrilled Jessie Carden he ex
claimed:
"Hi lives! He lives! Praise God,
my boy is not dead!”
At that moment Jasper appeared
and was dispatched for Dr. Randall.
General Carden cut the traces, and
the uninjured horse regained his feet.
Mrs. Jasper brought a basin of water,
and when General Carden joined the
silent group Jessie was washing the
dust and blood from the white face
and imoothing back the curling locks.
“Why, it’s John Burt! It's John
Burt, papa!” she exclaimed, tears
starting to her beautiful eyes. “Will
he die, Mr. Burt? Will he die? Oh,
papa, is there nothing we can do?”
“He will not die, my child,” said
the old inan in a clear, calm voice.
“It is written that he shall live these
many years.”
Just as Dr. Randall arrived. John
regained consciousness and begged a
glass of water. Jessie and her father
waited anxiously for the physician’s
verdict. The old man appeared first,
and though he spoke not, his radiant
face told the story.
“He is mdly cut and bruised in sev
eral plaice', but no bones are broken,"
said Dr. Randall. Jessie clapped her
hands for joy. “He will be up and
about in a week.”
Jasper was ready with the Burt
family carriage; and, leaving a kind
ly message for the grandsire, they re
turned to the Bishop house. Jessie
found that she had a few bruises, but
she laughed at her aches, and talked
only of the heroism of brave John
Burt. The next day she sent him a
beautiful bunch of roses, and another
each succeding day until word came !
from Dr. Randall that the young man !
was able to sit up and might receive j
j visitors. They dro?3 to the farm
1 house and were ushered into tho
' library—John's study-room for seven
I years.
General Carden advanced and
grasped John's hand. “My boy. God
bless you! I do not know how to
thank you. Jessie, have you nothing j
to say to the young man who saved
your life?”
“I never thought,” said Jessie,
placing her hands in his, “that the
boy who taught me how to catch
crabs would one day save my life.
But you know I always told Miss Mal
den that you weren't riffraff, and you
see I was right!”
John looked handsome a* ne lay
back in the great arm-chair. “I’m
glad I had a chance to bt‘ of service
to one I had met before,” be said, as
Jessie took a seat beside him;
“though I confess I should not recog
nize you as the little girl who visited
here several years ago. You are a
young lady now, and I should hardly
dare address you as Jessie, and that's
the only name I knew you by In those
daya.” .. > j
"I am not yet sixteen, and yo« cm
call me Jessie until I tell you not to.
Can’t he, papa?”
“I suppose so,” said General Car
den. “She is a spoiled child, Mr.
Burt,” turning to the old gentleman,
“and I have ceased making rules, lest
she should break them.”
During the hour which followed,
Jessie and John talked of a score of
topics, John deftly turning the con
versation from the runaway accident.
How dainty, yet how healthy, Jessie
looked! The July sun had begun its
etching of tan. The , slender neck,
where the brown tresses protected it,
was dazzling, shading away to cheek
and brow in blendings of cream, pink
and tan, which defied touch of brush
or skill of words. The arched eye
brows and the dark silken lashes
framed eyes which glowed with the
smouldering fires of dawning woman
hood. The mouth was not too small,
and the lips were ruddy as ripe cher
ries.
And this was the being he had
saved from mutilation against the
cruel rocks! As he looked at her,
heard the rippling music of her voice
and felt the subtle inspiration of her
presence, the thought came that there
was something selfish in his joy and
pride.
What was it? Is love selfish?
CHAPTER SIX.
Summer Days.
John Burt sprang into his saddle
with an ease that showed complete
recovery from the runaway accident,
anti cantered to Jessie Carden’s side.
They waved their hands gaily to Mrs.
Bishop, and galloped away under the
arching maples that formed an ave
nue before the old mansion. It was
John’s fourth visit since Jessie’s ar
rival, and his suggestion of a rid§ to
Hull had been smilingly accepted.
An hour later they stood on the
heights above Point Allerton. Below,
the wide crescent of Nantasket Beach
swung to the south and east; within
it “crawled the wrinkled sea.” Every
foot of ground was hallowed by his
tory and legend. From that point
their ancestors w'atched the Chesa
peake as she sailed proudly out to
fight the Shannon; there they had
wept when they learned that the
brave Lawrence had gone to his death
shouting encouragement to his crew.
Thence Captain John Smith first
sighted the harbor. The red warriors
of King Philip camped where they
stood. A short distance away the
Mary and John had anchored with
her freight of pioneers. A mile to
the north stood Boston Light, and
they pictured Lord Howe’s fleet sail
ing past it, swelling disdainfully out
to sea.
(To be continued.)
GAVE UP HER MEAL TICKET.
Comical Mistake Made by Woman in
New York Theater.
At a recent matinee in a New York
theater a middle-aged woman bought
a single ticket for the gallery, and
mounted the stairs to the upper part
of the house, says the New York
Times. She handed to the ticket tak
er at the gallery entrance a check of
the size and shape of the gallery tick
ets. which gave no coupons attached.
He dropped it into the box. and the
little woman hurried to find a good
seat.
The first act had been on but a lit
tle while when the woman hurried,
almost out of breath, to the ticket
taker and cried:
“Let me have my ticket, please!”
“What?”
“The ticket I gave you. Let me
have it again!”
“But it’s in the box, locked up,” re
plied the man. coldly.
“Oh. dear me! Oh, dear me!” the
little woman wailed.
“What’s the matter?” asked the
man, growing very slightly sympa
thetic.
“I gave you the wrong ticket,” she
said, weeping. "Here—here’s yours.”
And she drew from her handbag the
ticket that should have been taken
up.
“But what was the other one?” de
manded the man in astonishment.
“It was my meal ticket,” she
sobbed, “and I can’t eat.”
The little woman would not go back
to her seat until she had been assured
by the man that she should have her
mea'l ticket, which she afterward re
covered.
Gen. Wheeler and Peaches.
A Michigan officer in the Spanish
war had a negro attendant whose
ideas of military discipline were
strict. Owing especially to the thiev
ing proclivities of some of the Cuban
hangers-on. he was under strict com
mand not to let anything go from the
officers’ quarters without a personal
order from him.
One evening, as the officer and Gen.
Wheeler met some distance from the
camp the general said, with a smack
of his lips:
“I hear, sir, that you received some
very fine brandied peaches from
home.”
“Yes, General, they're prime, and
I'm going to send you some. Mean
time you had better stop at my tent
on the way in and have my man give
you a can.”
When the officer reached his quar
ters he was approached by his at
tendant with an elaborate salute, who
said: ,
“Did you tell dat Gen’l Wheelah,
sah, dat he could call heah, sah, and
nrocu’ a can ob dem brandied
peaches, sah?”
“Yes; of course, you gave' them to
him?”
“No, sah; I knows my duties, sah.
I done tole Gen’l Wheelah dat all
men look alike to me, sah, an’ if he
didn’t bab no ordah he couldn’t hab
no peaches, sah, ’less he oba-come me
by powah of supeiah numbers, sah.”
“Why, you black rascal, what did
he say?”
“He jes’ grin and bo’ It, sah.”
Traveling Together.
“Where’s that dude hunter?”
“Oh, be left me to go after a bear.”
“When’s he coming back?”
“Whenever the bear does.”
Not a Shopper.
She—She’s very mannish, isn't she? |
He—Yes, Indeed. Sbe can’t force
he* way through a crowd at alL—
[ Philadelphia Ledger.
* i ' . ' -
' STORY OF A SONG.
Circumstances Under Which the
“Three Fishers” Was Written.
Charles Kingsley wrote the “Three
Fishers” as a result of the many sad
sights he had seen at Clovelly. One
day of horror in particular lived in
his memory, a day as he described it.
“when the old bay lay darkened with
the gray columns of the water spouts,
stalking across the waves before the
northern gale; and the tiny herring
beats fleeing from their nets right for
the breakers, hoping more mercy
even from those iron walls of rock
than from the pitiless howling waste
of spray behind them; and that merry
beach beside the town covered with
shrieking women and old men, casting
themselves on the pebbles, in fruit
less agonies of prayer, as corpse after
corpse swept up at the feet of wife
and child, till in one case alone a
single dawn saw upward of sixty
widows and orphans weeping over
those who had gone out the night be
fore in the fullness of strength and
courage.” These scenes lived ever
in his mind.
But the “Three Fishers” was writ
ten as a result of one of the strangest
incidents in the stormy career of the
preacher-author. In 1851 he preached
a sermon in a London church on “The
Message of the Church to the Labor
ing Man.” At its close the vicar rose
and denounced him. Bishop Blomfield
forbade Kingsley to preach again in
his diocese, until, having read the
sermon and seen its author, he with
drew the edict. The same night upon
which he delivered his discourse
Kingsley went to his home weary.
There had nearly been a riot in the
church. Sick at heart, he retired to
his study. When he reappeared he
handed to his family his immortal
song; “as though it were the out
come of it ay,” as his wife said.
HIS WAY TO OUTWIT THE DEVIL.
Preacher's Opinion on Prepared and
Extemporaneous Sermons.
Apropos of the question of the
best way to prepare a sermon Rev.
G. Campbell Morgan, the great Eng
lish evangelist, is credited with hav
ing told the following story to a class
of Bible students at the McCormick
Seminary:
“An aspiring young curate once ask
ed an old preacher if it were better to
write out a sermon or to preach ex
temporaneously. The venerable clergy
man, who was noted for his rambling
discourses, replied: ‘My son. never
write out your sermon, for the devil
will be surx* to look over your shoulder
and get warning beforehand. Now,
when I preach the devil himself could
not tell what I am going to say.’ ”
This remark was almost as sophisti
cated as that of the old darky Dr.
Thomas used to tell about, who was
asked to explain the difference be
tween a preacher and an exhorter.
“A preacher,” said the son of Ham,
“has to stick to his text, but the ex
horter can branch.
A Horse Which Thought.
Instances of great intelligence in
horses are almost as numerous as
the horses themselves, but there are
few which make prettier stories than
this, related in La Nature by a Par
isian.
At Vincennes, in my childhood, he
writes, my father had two spirited
horses of fine blood. One day while
one of them, Prunelle, was passing
between two walls with my little sis
ter on her back, the child slipped and
rolled between the horse's feet.
Prunelle stopped instantly and held
one hind foot in air. She seemed to
fear to lower that foot lest she should
step on the child- There was no room
for the horse to turn nor for a man
to pass in.
In that uncomfortable position, with
lifted foot, however, the horse stood
patiently while an attendant crawled
between her forefeet and rescued the
child—Montreal Herald.
Not Guilty.
“A friend of mine keeps a hotel out
in Ohio.” said Representative Beid
Ier, “and the last time I saw him he
had a tale of hard luck that made me
pause and consider.
“He had a good hotel, and to cinch
this idea with his patrons he put up
a sign. ‘A week’s board free if you
can beat this hotel at a dollar a day.'
“A chap came along and staid for
two days. Then he left by way of the
window without paying his bill. He
was captured in the next town,
brought back and placed on trial be
fore the justice of the peace..
“The justice heard the case, and
decided that the man was not guilty,
as he had certainly beaten the hotel
for two days’ entertainment. Then he
shooed the man out of town, and
w'ent around to the hotel and collect
ed the week's board for himself."—
New York World.
Agreed With the Doctor.
A new variation of a good old story
is making the rounds of the British
papers. It runs like this:
The coroner had directed the jury
to find a verdict of felo-de-se.
“Well, chaps, said the foreman of
the jury, when they had retired to
consider the verdict, “it appears to
me that thi3 'ere chap shot 'isself
with a gun, after shootin’ another
chap with a gun, but Dr. Jones, the
coroner, who we all know and 'ighly
respect, ’e says that this ’ere chap
fell in the sea. Weil, it ain't for the
likes of us to go arguin’ the point
with the doctor, for ’e knows more
about it than we do. So, I propose we
find a verdict of found drowned”—and
they did.
Adds to Already Generous Gift.
Rev. John L. Scudder, pastor of the
First Congregational church of Jersey
City, announces that Joseph Millbank,
Ihe New York banker and broker,
who last summei gave $100,000 for
the erection of a parish building to be
known as the people’s palace, had
added $50,00 to the gift.
-"W 1
Mexican Filibuster Dead.
Dr. J. C. C. Hill, who died recently
at Monterey, Mex., went Into Mexico
from die United States more than fifty
years ago with an invading filibuster
ing expedition. He had held before hU
death important offices under Presi
*•"* Dias. < *
■ ’ _
A Fair Offer.
“Tommy.” said the economical
mother to the boy with the loose
tooth. “Ml give you ten cents if you’ll
let me pull that tooth.”
The boy thought it over and then
went to his bank.
“The fun of doin’ that is worth
more’n ten cents,” lie said. “I’ll give
•ju fifteen if you’ll let me pull one of
yours.”
How He Looked at It.
“Yes,” said the author, "I got seven
letters complimenting me on that one
short story.”
“That must have made you feel
proud.”
“It didn’t.”
“What did it do?”
“Why, it only made me feel that 1
didn't get enough lor it when I sold
! it.”
REVERSED.
He—Whe nhe proposed he threw himself at her feet.
She—And now that they’re married she throw's bric-a-brac at his head.
The Joke Stays, Umbrella Goes.
“Sir!” exclaimed the injured party,
“you stuck your umbrella in my eye.”
“Oh, no,” replied the cheerful of
fender, “you are mistaken.”
“Mistaken?” demanded the Irate
man. ‘You idiot! I know when my
eye is hurt, I guess.”
‘Doubtless,” replied the cheerful
chap, “but you don't know my um
brella. I borrowed this one from a
friend to-day!”
Embarrassing.
A superintendent of a Sunday school
relates the following true incident:
The title of the lesson was, “The
rich young man,” and the golden text,
“One thing thou lackest.”
A lady teacher in the primary class
asked a little tot to repeat the two,
and, looking earnestly in the teacher’s
face, the child unblushingly told her,
■ One thing thou lackest—a rich young
man.”
Working Up to It.
Tom—I called on Miss Eisberg yes
terday.
Dick—What! That Boston girl?
Goodness! I shouldn't think it would
be any pleasure to call on her; she's
so frigid.
Tom—Well. I do it occasionally be
cause it makes me feel so good to
say gv. i-by to her.—Philadelphia
Ledger.
His Busy Geason.
Kind Lady—Why didn't you learn a
trade when you were young?
Plodding Pete—'Cause I’m er geolo
gist by profession, ma'am.
Kind Lady—And don't you work at
it?
Plodding Pete—Only when de judge
sends me to de rock pile, ma'am.
What He Is Giving Up.
“Are you giving up anything during
Lent?”
“Yes.”
“What?”
“All my change every Sunday morn
ing to help the children make their
Sunday school pledges good.”
A Suggestion.
Clerk (at the telephone)—What's
the matter, sir?
Employer—Why, if you can holler
that loud into the telephone you might
as well go out into the street and hol
ler over at the man.—Detroit Free
Press.
Willing to Compromise.
“What have you to say?” asked the
irate Mrs. Jaggs, as the other half
of the combine stumbled up the stairs
at 2 a. m.
“M’dear,” answered Jaggs. “I (hie)
won’t say nothin’ if you (hie) won't.”
Something to Mow.
“I wonder if they produce hay in
the arctic fields?” said the hallroom
boarder.
“I don’t know whether they call it
hay or not,” replied the cheerful idiot,
“but it’s something the Eskimos.”
Other Side of It.
“When women get their rights,”
said Miss Strongmind, "there will be
less foolish lovemaking.”
“That's all right,” responded Mr.
Masherton, “there won’t be a girl left
worth spooning over.”
Why She Objected.
“I suppose, my dear,” said old
Moneybags, "that you object to my us
ing tobacco because it is a poison.”
"Yes,” replied his young wife; "be
cause it is—er—such a slow poison.”
It All Depends.
“They tell me,” said the youth,
“that men who work live longest.
Do you believe it?” ,
“Well,” replied the sage, “it de
pends a good deal on who they try
to work.”
Slight Mistake.
Shopper (In department store)—
“Isn't it rather early to have those
mosquito nets on sale?
Saleslady*-Beg pardon, but those
aro boarding-house blankets.
A Great Composer.
‘ It was a mistake to ask that man
if he thought America would ever pro
duce a great composer. I am afraid
you hurt his feelings.”
"I don’t see why.” responded the
musical young woman.
“He is the inventor of a soothing
syrup.”
A Bright Outlook.
^ ill you father give his consent?”
asked the lover.
“Well, if father won't mother will.”
replied the girl. “They never agree
on anything, so we're sure to get the
consent of one, and that is enough.”
Safety Appliance.
Husband—Why did you want a
speaking tube from the dining-room to
the kitchen?
Wife—So I can give the cook or
ders without having her throw dishes
at me.
Sympathetic.
Si Oatcake—“Tew bad erbout Corn
tassel losin’ his wife, wusn't it?”
Hi Harix—“Gosh, yes! And after
him havin' ter winter her, tew.”
The Exception.
She—Do you believe it is true that
ali the world loves a lover?
He—No; not since I had an inter
riew with your father.
TOO BAD.
: ’ r ' • v
“Mr. Smith had a hard time to get his daughters off his hands."
“Yes, and now I hear he has to keep their husbands on their feet."
As Defined.
“Say, pa,” queried little Johnnie
Bumpernickie, “what's a light-weight
boxer?”
“A light-weight boxer, my son. is
a man engaged in crating strawber
ries,” replied the old gentleman.
Then or Never.
Miss Willing—Should a girl allow
her fiance to kiss her before they are
married?
Mrs. Wedderly—Well, if she wants
him to kiss her at all she should.
Forcing the Issue.
•-Your milk isn’t as rich as it used
tc be,” protested Mrs. Slopay.
“Neither am I.” replied the milk
man. “By the way, here’s a statement
of your account for the past six
months.”
Self-Protection.
Salesman—Well, the old man fired
two more clerks to-day.
Floor Walker—Say, if this thing
keeps up you fellows will have to
take out fire insurance policies.
Still Unsettled.
Fred—Were you at the wedding of
young Softun and Miss Leaderer?
Joe—Yes; it quite a swell affair
Fred—Who was the best man?
Joe As the honeymoon isn't over.
I hardly think it is settled yet.
Lovesick, Perhaps.
Smithiuski—I notice Dr. Singleton
has been calling at the home of that
young widow almost every day for a
week. She must be pretty sick.
Brownovlch—Not sick; only pretty.
Feminine Amenities.
Mrs. Neurich—I am going on a
slumming expedition with some
friends to-morrow.
Mrs. Hammerton—Inded! I hope
you will find your relatives enjoying
good health.
Gave Himself Away.
Diggs—Your friend Brieflefgh isn’t
much of a lawyer, is he? •
Biggs—Why do you think he isn’t'’
Diggs Ob. I just heard him say.
that talk was cheap.
The Queer Part.
“He's got the queerest way o’
drinkin’ his coffee,” said the Chica
goan.
"Out of his saucer, I suppose,” re
marked Gotham.
“Of course, but I say he does it in a
queer way. He holds his thumb un
derneath and his four fingers on tht
top of the rim.”—Philadelphia Press
His Curiosity.
“Does your wife work hard?”
"Well, she seems to, but I’ve always
been curious to know what she does
when I’m not home.”
"Why?”
“Because when I am home she dusts
every blamed room that I get comfort
able in, and I can’t think what there
is left to keep her busy.”
Constancy.
Mrs. Nutting—You don’t care for
me any longer; you only married me
for my money.
Mr. Nutting—Don’t talk nonsense.
My love has never wavered for an in
stant; I think just as much of your
money as ever I did.—Boston Tran
script.
Forced Upon Him.
Cronnick—He’s one of the most stu
pid bores I ever met.
Jenks—And yet he has accumulated
money. Fortune seems to have knock
ed at his door.
Cronnick—I don’t believe it. She
most have broken right in.—Exchange.
Knowledge Coming.
“He’s had a fortune left to him sud
denly. He has actually got more
money nowr than he knows what to do
with.”
“Never mind; there are certain peo
pie who will be anxious to meet him
now, and after that he’ll know more.’
What He Talks Through.
Milkins—What’s Windig’s number
Bifkins?
Bifkins—Five and three-eighths.
Mifkins—Why, there aren’t any
fractional numbers- in the telephont
book.
Bifkins—Oh, I thought you meant
his hat.
How It Happened.
“Fortune, you know, knocks at
every man's door once.”
“That explains it.”
“Explains what?"
“How we came to miss her. Why
in thunder doesn’t she ring the bell'.
We never pay any attention tc
knocks.”
He Was Real Rude.
“Yes,” admitted Miss Passay, “I
shall celebrate the twenty-third anni
versary of my birth in the near fu
ture.”
“Indeed!” retorted Mr. Hammer
leign. "And were you born on Feb.
29*”
More Value.
Freddy—“Gussie Sapp says he has
a coat-of-arms.”
Charley—“What good is that? Why,
I have a coat-of-cloth.”