Evening Republican, Volume 14, Number 55, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 5 March 1910 — Page 3

The Quest of Betty Lancey

CHAPTER XlV.—(Continued.) ’ There Johnny had chills and fever, *nd Harry fell into the dumps, while Benoni tended Johnny like a womau, with such skill and technique,, that Larry, was moved to ask if the black, had ever studied medicine. “Yes, I took rhy degree at Heidelberg,” Benoni relied, somewhat gruffly. “They don’t balk at an African prince in Germany.’’ “Why do you hate America, for you ■ flo. you know?” said Harry. “Because it was an American, the father of .the woman you know as Cerisse Wayne, who brought untold misery upon my father and his ancient African house,” blurted Benoni, forcing Johnny to drink a tea he had steeped Cor him. The cave was coarsely furbished with skins, some crude pottery and cooking utensils. To Larry It looked like a secluded hunting lodge or the some-time retreat of a spasmodic hermit. —' “Then you know about this mystery, just as I’ve thought,” said Larry. “And tnto what mess you’re taking Johnny and me, I’d like to know!” “I’m trying to take you to Miss Lancey,” responded Benoni. "I don’t know, of course, but I’m pretty certain she’s alive. That pigeon confirmed my belief of that. But as to telling you— Morris, the tale will unfold Itself, and if it doesn't—” he shrugged his shoulders and put down the cup. After that, even in the long watches of the night, when Johnny lay still and quiet, fighting a long, slow battle with his malady, Benoni forbore to discuss any aspect of the Wayne murder mystery. This tantalized Larry all the tnore. Benoni would speak, though, of his travels, and Larry listened to the narrations as spellbound as If to the master of all story-tellers. For the black had a marvelous power of language. One morning the rain - ceased to fall. Johnny was up now and walking around the cave, trying to laugh at the illness that had laid him so low. Larry had lost his watch when the punt overturned, also his notes of his African travels that he had conscientiously been making. Whether it was nooh, Might or dinner time, Larry never knew any more, and It might have been ■Christmas or Decoration Day for aught tie might tell to the contrary. He tried Robinson Crusoe’s notch-on-a-cross ■experiment in time keeping on a rock by the cave door, but had given up this •calendar attempt as altogether too crude and too much of a near-Water-bury.

“We’re going to move on to-day, tioys,” said Benoni, “as soon as breakfast’s over." “Now see here,” objected Larry. “If I'ni going to die I’d just as soon die right here as die of curiosity on the road, and that’s what I’m going to do ts you don’t drop this swathing of mystery, Benoni, and tell us where we are going, and all about it. What’s the matter with you, anyway? Why -don’t you take us Into your confidence a bit? Supposing you’d die? Where ■would be be then?" “Better oft if you knew nothing of *what I know,” Benoni responded. “Besides, I’m not going to die. Then, too, lack of knowledge means want of •worry. You will need all your strength. I don’t want It .depleted by anxiety. Better trust In me quietly. I’ve not failed you yet. And I’m trying to pay you a debt of gratitude. In taking you where we are journeying I’m risking the Ilves of others I hold dear. Remember that!” "Well, where are we going?" Insisted Johnny. “I don’t want to take any more of your launch rides if you're going to serve them up with jungle sauce, as you did before. I don’t like the taste of the drinks!” “We won't have any more of that ready?” Rebelliously, mutinously, Johnny and Larry followed the giant African. The country all around was a waste of water, where the prodigal river had burst her bands. Afar to the south rose a dull granite mountain. Toward this Benon| bent his steps. They climbed the top of the hillock abovi the cave and by dextrous jumps and shrew A-calculation reached an elevated plateau with but a nominal wetting. Thick grass carpeted this plateau, beat down to the earth, and interwoven by the pAindlng of the rains it made a slippery matting for them to walk upon. Far to the north rose the mountain, and to the west lumbered the nauseous river that skirted the cave. For hours they walked 1 until they entered a thicket, through whose mazes Benoni found a labyrinthine path, which they threaded in silence. "Wonder what the time is?” volunteered Johnny. “About boon, I think, rs answered Benoni. "We’d stop to eat. but I want to reach the castle before-the rain begins again.” *

“The castle ?" queried Johnny. •'Whose? Whew-ee!" They had stopped abruptly. The path had come out upon a wonderful garden, exquisitely laid out, though battered from the onslaughts of the rain. Ahead of them was a granite castle, and close to its uncouth entrance a girl was dancing. As they looked they sa w that she was tall and fair, and that though there was a huge lion beside her, though her hair fell in braids down her back, and though her garb was that of a woman of ancient Greece, that slje was unmistakably the long •ought Betty!

By MAGDA F. WEST

CHAPTER XV. City Editor Burton and Betty were walking in the gapfien. The garden was wet as a sponge, and Betty, shoes and stockings off, was joying in- the rush of the water and the feel of the tepid ooze beneath her feet. It was the first time in days that the rain had not been falling. A haze still overspread the desert and the air seemed full enough of rain to have dripped it ybu had squeezed it. But Betty didn’t care. Her long brown hair, still dull and satiny as a pecan-shell, despite 11 the havoc of fever, sea wind and southern sun, dangled below her waist in two thick braids, and was parted with aever a sign of a ripple over her broad white forehead. Betty’s hair under no provocation had ever been known to curl. It was nice, straightforward hair. Her gown was a prolongation of Meta’s tunic,, and skirt of fine white linen, low dt neck, devoid of sleeve and clasped at the shoulder with two flashing diamond buckles that Meta picked up somewhere around the castle. It was fastened at the belt by a wide girdle of cut and uneut diamonds curiously and indiscriminately mixed. Bitty had long since ceased ttf take any interest in diamonds, for she had had more of flashing pins and gee-gaws thrust on tier by the adtnirlng Meta during her stop In the castle than she had ever dreamed of owning. Betty's skirt, though much longer than Meta’s, was very well above her ankles and with City Editor Burton as an appreciative audience Betty was practicing a barefoot dance as sfie had seen an ultra-fashionable exponent of barefoot dancing prance upon a very esthetic stage.

“Just watch, City Editor Burton,” she laughed. “Just watch! Here is where lam expressing joy! Note the glow of the drapery. Burton, my boy, and the marvelous way in which the dancer sticks her toes into the ooze— Oh, there’s a thorn. Now, City Editor Burton, I’m about to be captured and cast away on a desert isle —watch me —see this gesture in grief—City Editor mine—l send a message—see—l welcome a pigeon—see, there, City Editor Burton, it brings me a message from—from—oh, Meta, Meta—Meta—Larry Johnny' ” Burton bayed a prodigious roar, Meta tumbled from the house with a small rifle in her hand as Betty, barefooted, dishevelled, sprang into- the arms of Larry Morris, and let him hold her very tightly and kiss her forehead again and again, while red-headed Johnny Johnson grabbed her hands alternately and danced around so recklessly City Editor Burton howled louder than a simoon. Betty and Larry were too rapt for words. Not so the incorrigible Johnny.

“Get on to the Isadora Duncan rig” he chortled, "and this animal here—your lap-dog, Betty? What do you call him?” .“City Editor Burton,” mumbled Betty, extricating herself from Larry’s arms, and both the men roared. ’Wouldn’t I like to see old Burt’s face if we could only ship him the brute," said Johnny. “It would be worth getting hung for!" Meta, when she had recognized Larry as the original of the portrait in Betty’s locket, lowered the little revolver, which till this moment Betty had not known she possessed. As Meta turned to go into the house Betty called her back, and putting her arm around the black girl’s waist, she said: “Larry,,dear, she has been good to me; this is Meta-” Larry put out his hand and the t>ick girl, half abashed, took it silently. “Meta,” echoed Johnny. “Where’s Benoni? Is she his?” Johnny whistled, and a man came through the brake—he came like a whirlwind, and when he saw the black girl by Betty’s side a savage yell o'* triumph, mingled with the grief that is born of joy, rang out from both their throats.

“His wife,” said tarry, quietly. “He brought us here. He and the pigeons Betty, dear, it was sq like you to think of the pigeons!” “Oh, then my messages did some good; those blessed birds, those blessed birds!” exclaimed Betty. “I never knew what became of them. How did you mrd the way?” “We followed Benoni; he knew the way, best,” answered Larry. “His Wife," said Betty* aghast. “And she never told!" Johnson and Larry both laughed. "If that isn’t' the woman of it You’ll hold that up against her all her life, I suppose." "Well, I don’t care,” said Betty. "Anyway, I’ll bet I know one thing you boys don> 1 Ttnow who killed Cerlsse Wayne." "Who?” asked both boys, in a breath. “Well, then, it was the man who loved her best" replied Betty. "Oh, what’s his name?" asked Johnny. •I don’t know,” said Betty., "but it must have been her husband, of course.” ' “Fell down on your assignment” sneered Larry, -‘‘No story's any good without names!” <

The Hon stretched his shrunken gums over his rickety teeth and yawned slightly. “Mademoiselle,” said Meta, ap preaching, “you had better come In out of the wet— it is going to rain again! Look at the sky.” “Meta, do you speak English?” reproached Betty, with a mental resume of the weary days that she had spent

without intercourse of coherent speech since Tyoga’s absence. ‘ _ ,“Oh. forgive me,” cried Meta, fading at'jier feet. “Yes, I went to a convent in London, Miladl, x but they made me prqhnlse l l would not let you know 1 knew your tongue. They were afraid J, would tell —too much. But it has hurt me so much, Miladi; I felt at times that I would choke if I did not speak with you.” “Now I know why you couldn’t learn English,” laughed Betty. “But I know these boys are hungry. Let’s get them some dinner and then we can talk.” “We must depart in all haste from here,” warned Benoni. “To stop long is very dangerous.” ' ‘®enoni speaks truly,” added his wife. “But in all this rain that’s to cqme?” expostulated Betty, “and we can’t leave City Editor Burton.” “We’re not going to,” said Johnny. "That’s too good a joke.”

CHAPTER XVI. In vain did ther police and thereporters dig and pry into the house at 94 Briarsweet place in hope of finding some trace of Hamley Hackleye. Mr. Hackleye was nqf about. His London bankers could., give no definite information about him. For thirty years he had been accustomed to go and come when he He had for a long while maintained a comfortable home at Khartoum and another at Cairo, but he visited these, only at intervals, and sometimes was not seen in them for a year at a time. He was known to possess great estates located in Central Africa, but none knew positively where. He kept a retinue of servants at each establishment and a suave major-domo in each was accustomed to being the nominal head of the household. Neither of these men, however, could give any of the wished for explicit information about their master. Each home contained the usual accumulation of furniture, bric-a-brac, and the olla podjrida of civilization that aggregates in every wealthy home, but nothing at all mysterious or in any way smacking of the criminal. They were the homes of a gentleman of wealth and culture. Any connection between the African laws and penalties of Mr. Hackleye and the Indian home of the Harcourts, it was impossible to discover. The Harcourt menage was located in the hill country, in a most beautiful spot. Harcourt had come there about seven years previously, at the time of his marriage to Narcisse De L’Enclos, the widow, -x Madame Marie De L’Enclos, whose hdsband, Captain Raoul De L’Enclos, an honorably discharged officer in the French army, had brought his bride there immediately after his marriage. The captain had died a year after the birth of his daughter, and Madame De L Enclos and the little girl Narcisse had lived in secluded magnificence, till one season on a trip to Calcutta, they had met Harold Harcourt, the younger son of an English nobleman, who was then visiting a cousin city. After a brief, acquaintance the young girl, then only 18, and Harcourt were married. The young pair went back to the hill country palace and the mother left for a continental voyage from which she never returned, though it was given out that she had died while abroad. Then the Harcourt baby came a boy and when he was two years old he met a tragic death. There had never been anything to give rise to suspicion about the Harcourt home, any more than at the Hackleye estates, nor was any seeming connection between the two families instituted except that both were accredited with possessing large diamond interests in Africa, and the peculiar likeness between the two women, and the similarity in handwriting and in the euphony of the names of the two men. Portraits of Harcourt on the walls of his Indian home were photographed and sent to America and were an exact tally for the man held in jail in Chicago. (To be continued.)

She Was Welcome.

‘‘Can you give me any references from your last place?” 'No, ma’am. The last woman I worked for was Mrs. Lippy, that used to live next door to you. She an’ I couldn’t get along at all. You don’t know how mean she is. I could tell you ever so many——” “You may come.”

A Bad Actor.

I see that a scientist has proved that many horses have unsound minds.” “The one I bet on yesterday ought to have had a commission in lunacy appointed forty years ago, when he was a yearling.”—Cleveland Leader.

Hard Luck.

Ames. —Did you hear that Jones died last night? Blames—You don’t say! That’s what I call rough luck. Anj^s —How’s that? Blames—l paid him the £5 I owed him the day before - yesterday.—Ally Sloper's.

The Sun.

Sir Robert Ball asserted that every 100 years the sun loses five miles of its diameter. To ally anxiety, however. he mentioned that the diameter of the sun is 860,000 miles and that 40,000 years hence the diameter would still be 850,000 miles.

Strong Habit.

"That fellow made money, but ha certainly is a faker.” “Indeed he is. Why, the habit was so strong, that’s why he huilt his heir house on a bluff.”—Baltimore American.

Veracity.

"Figures can't lie,” said the mathematician. - “Did you ever try to follow the argument put up by the figurees an a taxcab register?"—Washington Star.

Awful Thought.

“When I leave here* I shall have to depend on my brains for a living.” "Don't take such a pessimists risw of thing*”—Cornell Widow, k’.,. <. t . r J

BITS FOR BOOKWORMS

A series of Histories of Science is projected in London, each vqlume to be written by a recognized authority. Twenty volumes have so far been arranged for. It is stated that the animating idea of the plan is to get away from formality and aridity of treatment and to present facts in a simple and attractive way. The volumes are to be illustrated and will be inexpensive. The English critics are finding in WfHlhffi De Morgan a reincarnation, of the former time English story tellers. This is the judgment of a writer in the Manchester Guardian. “Mr. De Morgan is at closer quarters with his people than Dickens and even Thackeray were with theirs, and about poor folk he writes gently, whimsically, sentlmentally/but always with understanding. A chapter which tells of the little girl waiting for her blind father, who has been smashed in an accident, is the finest in the book, and Dickens never wrote anything better. Llzerann is, indeed, a beautiful character, never exceeding the limits of childhood or class, yet, in Mr. De Morgan’s beneficent vision, standing for present heroism and noble possibilities in the race.” “Ruskin’s writings are themselves a work of art; and every man has to fashion as best he may a work in the supreme art—-the art of the conduct of life. What, then, was the spirit which finds expression in the writings and in the life of Ruskin?” asks E. T. Cook in the Pall Mall Magazine. “For six years I have lived in daily familiarity with his sayings, his doings, and the records of him. I can best up my final and pervading impression by adopting the tribute paid to Ruskin by his personal friend, the late Prof. Charles Eliot Norton: T, too, would “declare my conviction that no other master of literature in our time endeavored more earnestly and steadily to set forth for the help of those whom he addressed whatsoever thingy are true, honest, just, pure, lovely, and of good report; or in his own life tried more faithfully to practice the virtues which spring from the contemplation of such things and from their adoption as the rule of conduct.” ’ ”

Has an author a right to reply to criticism? Hall Caine thinks that he has, though he limits such a right to questions outside the purely literary character of his work. Just lately “grave charges of personal misconduct” have been made against him; he has been called “a defamer of his country, the inflamer of sedition,” he has "outraged the sanctities of religion and pandered to the public appetite for indecency”—and this, he alleges, “not in obscure, but in prominent journals, not in one place, but in hundreds of places.” One voice only, and that Mr. Shaw’s, has been raised in defense of Mr. Caine—“one, man of letters who is not shirking his duty,” “a brave, disinterested and public-spir-ited citizen,” and so forth. I am not concerned with the literary merits or demerits of Mr. Caine’s book, says a writer in the Boston Transcript, nor with the unconvincing but characteristic violence of Mr. Shaw’s brochure. Personally, I think that the “hundreds" of critics on “prominent journals, though dojibtless actuated by the best intentions, were making mountains out of mole-hills when they called Mr. Caine all the .hard names that he complains of. No gospel is really powerful for good or evil that does not carry conviction with it, and Mr. Caine’s political gospel, as set forth in “The White Prophet,” merely made me smile, though his partisan Mr. Shaw declares that he “represents English feeling far more than the press or the governing class.”

MORE VALUABLE FARMS.

Smaller and Better Cultivated Areas Urged by Governor Marshall. In the “Autocrat of the Breakfast Table” Oliver Wendell Holmes advanced the theory that the nation that shortens its arms lengthen is boundaries. So It may also be said that the state that reduces the/size of its farms increases its prosperity. Governor Marshall’s suggestion to the State Board of Agriculture that it institute a movement to break up the big farms of Indiana into smaller ones, and to induce the people of the cities now eking out a bare subsistence in the mills and factories to go out and occupy them, is in direct agreement with the moot advanced agricultural and horticultural thought of the time, the Indianapolis News says. It has been clearly demonstrated that a small fafm, properly cultivated, wll bring larger returns in proportion to the labor expended on it, to say nothing of the investment, than a large farm carelessly cultivated. Furthermore, , small farms offer an opportunity for more people to become producers instead of being merely consumers of the nation's fundamental wealth. The day of the large farm is passing because farmers have been brought to a realization that a large farm is often a lessener than an Increaser of income. To farm on an extensive scale profitably requires the thorough organization of a large staff of men. ths heavy investment in a large quan-

tlty of machinery and for many pui> poses available power to operate that machinery. For the ordinary farmer who in total produces the vast bulk of oureuormous crops, these things are not practicable. He may be a good farmer, and yet lack genius for organization ; he may even be fairly prosperous, and yet not be equal to the investment in machinery and power that is necessary to get all out of his spreading acres that he shduld get. The result is that a considerable area of his land either lies idle or is so inefficiently cultivated that the crops it produces do little pore than pay the cost of production and the interest on the investment, and sometimes they do not even do as much as that. But . the smaller farm may be held well in hand by the farmer. Hd can plan for the planting and thorough cultivation of every acre; he.can establish a system of fertilization and rotation of crops so that his land will suffer HP decrease in fertility, and- by doing these things he cannot only harvest immensely larger crops to the acre than he could by the old method, but the product will be of better quality. If there is anything in the theory that our production is falling behind our population it is not because of any lack of arable land. Rather it is because that which we have has been wastefully used. But much progress has been made toward remedying this evil, especially within the last decade. Some men who were farming large areas for a precarious hand-to-mouth existence are now farming smaller ones and phospering. The old idea was land, and then more land; broad acres whether they were profitable or not, to lie idle or be indifferently cultivated, as it happened. There was a time, of course,' when virgin soil was plentiful, that this policy, extravagant though it was, worked fairly well, but it never will again. Something more must be done now than merely tickle the land with a hoe to make it smile into a bounteous harvest. But this is to be remembered: The land still yields, and richly, for the work that is spent on it if it is properly done.

Now They Never Speak.

A coolness growing out of the following conversation has sprung up between Jones and Smith: “I had a splendid time last night," said Jones. “I spent the evening at a little social gathering at the Goodman mansion.” , “Are the Goodmans nice people?” queried Smith. “Well, I should say so. They are aristocratic. To get into their circle one must have either a great deal of money or a great deal of genius.” You don’t tell me so! And you say you were there?” • “Yes.” “You were Invited, were you?” “Of course." . And to pe invited a man has to have plenty of money or a great deal of genius?" “Precisely.” “Well, Jones, I am very glad to hear you have become rich all of a sudden. Lend me £s.”—London Answers.

Nothing to Say.

According to a delightful story of Shelley, recounted in the International Journal of Ethics, by the Rev. Bradley Gilman, the splendid mental equipment of the poet did not include humor. In his characteristically impassioned way, Shelley was deeply interested in the problem of Immortality. One day he met a nurse maid wheeling a very young child in a perambulator. "Here is a little soul,” he reflected, “recently come to earth, out of the great unknown preceding human life. Perhaps he can tell me something about the great unknown after human life. The two realms may be one and the same.” He accosted the infant twice, but of course gained no response, only a blank Infantile stare. “Alas! alas!” sighed Shelley. “How very reticent these little creatures are!"

Made a Dull Boy Smart.

Once upon a timii a stern father called his son to him and severely addressed him. “Child,” he said, “you are walking in the way of stifpidity Instead of punning the path of intelligence. You are neglecting your books and allowing your mind to sink into dullness. I must do something to awaken in you a realization of your error. Go to the orchard and bring me a switch as long as your arm and no smaller than your little finger.” The boy went as directed, and after he returned he and his father were alone in the attic for several painful minutes. Moral.—There is more than one way to make a boy smart. —New York Herald.

Ladylike.

A little girl on a train was chewing gum. Not only that, but she insisted on pulling it out in long strips and letting it fall back into her mouth again. ■' \ ~ “Mabel," said her mother, in a horrified "don't do that. Chew your gum like a little lady."—Everybody’s:

Webster Made Neat Retort.

As judge made law is now so much discussed, we may recall one of the neatest answers in history,, as far, at least, as our own reading goes: Judge (ipterruptlng Webster’s argument)—That Is not law. Webster—lt was law until your honor spoke—Collier’s Weekly.

CHRISTMAS IN ODD CORNERS.

Some Yuletide Recollection* of * . Traveler in Foreign I.aiM. It has been my lot to spend many «f my Christmases in foreign lands. I recall one dismal holiday spent In n filthy posthouse on the great postroad at Nljnl Udlnsk, now, in these days of 'the Trans-Siberian Railway, a place of some importance, says William L. Queux in the New York Evening Post. I was alone on my way from Petersburg to Irkutsk. On the previous day I had overtaken a convoy of prisoners in chains and as on the morning of the Russian Christmas day I was sitting by the high brick stove, I saw the Cossacks and their despairing charges arrive. I remember walking and talking with several of them in that wilderness of newly fallen snow. Most of them were, or said they were, victim* of the unscrupulous agents provocateurs of the government, and all seemed bitter against the Czar and hta advisers—as, indeed, they well might be.

Another Christmas of the Greek calendar I spent in Servia— in Belgrade, the capital of that gallant little state, the powder magazine of the Balkans It was a cold, bright, sunny day and an air of festivity was everywhere. The service in the cathedral, attended by the King and his cabinet, was a ’brilliant affair, and after a stroll In the delightful overlooking the Danube, I lunched with my friend, the minister of justice, and his charming American wife. The streets were hung with flags, exchanges of presents and flowers were universal, and many were the quaint Serb customs. The 25th of December, three years ago, I spent wearily in the stuffy restaurant car of the Nord express between Paris and Petersburg. Again I was alone and I remember, as wo steamed out of Vllna station, to the great plain toward Duifaberg, the chef of that celebrated express produced his triumph—an English pudding, with a small piece of holly stuck in the top. My passengers, being all foreigners, failed to appreciate It. But I did. Another memorable holiday was that I passed in the reindeer skin hut of a Laplander halfway between Alexandrovsk and Kandalksha. I was traveling by sled. I had left Kirkenaes, on an arm of the Arctic ocean, a month before and was now working my waysouth toward Archangel. I produced a bottle of much-shaken port wine in honor of the occasion and poured out a glass for my host. He was very suspicious of it and compelled me to swallow mine first. Then he sipped his and pulled a wry face. His wife tasted it, and sniffed suspiciously, and afterward the servants, but ail declared it was some horrible English decoction—some medicine, it must be, they said. They had never before tasted wine. They had never seen a bunch of grapes, never a rose and never seen a tree. One Yuletide dinner I ate at Ciro’s, at Monte Carlo, where the fooling was fast and furious, and with my friends I watched “the tables” afterward, supping across at the Hotel de Paris and receiving a present from the monster tree.

Only Once.

There are two kinds of people in the world—those who look on the bright side of things and those who do not. Each sort is sure to extract his or her own moral from everything. Two old ladies,. both .of whom were well cared for, were once conversing about their affairs, dne was a jolly old lady, the other was of a sour disposition. “Well, well,” said the jolly one, “it’s pleasant to be old. We get the best of everything—the easiest chairs, ths best places, the tenderest morsels—" “Yes. yes,” sighed the other, forced to admit that her life was an easy one, “that’s all very true, but what’s the use? We can’t be old but once."

Driving the Fact Home.

There are various methods, diplomattic or ..brusque, of notifying an unsatisfactory employe of his dismissal. The pink envelope, says a writer in the Boston Record, is the recognized messenger of fate in many business but there are other ways. The most picturesque and original of methods was that which “Uncle Jimmy" Gilbert used to use in his printing office. When a new maw came, Uncle Jimmy drove a nail in the wall for him to hang bls hat and coat on. , Some morning the man would come to work and find the nail driven in up to the head. He knew that he was through then.

All Through With Him.

The professional point of view la rarely that of the humanitarian. A passenger on a London omnibus, saya a writer In Sketch, calls out to the conductor: “ ’Ere, there! Whoa! There's an old chap fallen off the bus!” “All right!” responds the conductor, cheerfully. "’E's paid his fare."

Part Greater Than the Whole.

Fuddy—Do ( you know what is worse than a worm in a chestnut? Duddy—l’ll be goat. What is worse than a worm in a chestnut? Fuddy—Half a worm.—Boston Transcript.

The Difference.

Bobby— Say, pop, what's the difference between a lunch and a luncheon? Pop—About a dollar and a half.—» Boston Globe.