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^œœszsmmzsŒOTsmsmsmsmsmswE: SIMPLY SKIRTS A Business Adventure of Emma McChesney By EDNA FERBER Author of "Damit O'Hara, " "Buttered Side Damn, " etc. Copyright by Frederick A. Stokes Company They may differ on the subjects of ' cigars, samples, hotels, ball teams and pinochle hands, but two things there are upon which they stand united. Every member of that fraternity which is condemned to a hotel bedroom, or a sleeper berth by night, and chained to a sample case by day agrees in this, first: That It isn't what it used to be. Second: If only they could find an opening for a nice, paying gents' furnishing business in a live little town that wasn't swamped with that kind of thing already they'd buy it and settle down like a white man, by George! and quit this peddling. The missus hates it anyhow; and the kids know the iceman better than they do their own dad. On the morning that Mrs. Emma Mc Chesney (representing T. A. Buck, Featherloom Petticoats) finished her talk with Miss Hattie Stitch, head of Kiser ft Bloch's skirt and suit depart ment, she found herself in a rare mood. She hated her job; she loathed her yellow sample cases; she longed to call Miss Stich a green-eyed cat; and she wished that she had chosen some easy and pleasant way of earn ing a living, like doing plain and fancy washing an Ironing. Emma McChesney had been selling Featherloom Petti coats on the road for almost ten years, and she was famed throughout her territory for her sane sunnlness, and her love of her work. Which speaks badly for Miss Hattie Stitch. Miss Hattie Stitch hated Emma Mc Chesney with all the hate that a flat chested, thin-haired woman has for one who can wear a large 36 with out one inch of alteration, and a hat that turns sharply away from the face. For 46 weeks in the year Miss Stitch existed in Kiser ft Bloch's store at River Falls. For six weeks, two in spring, two in fall, and two in mid winter, Hattie lived In New York, with a capital L. She went there to select the season's newest models (slightly modified for River Falls), but incidentally she took a regular trousseau with her. All day long Hattie picked skirt and suit models with unerring good taste and business judgment. At night she was a creature trans formed. Every house of which Hattie bought did its duty like a soldier and a gentleman. Nightly Hattie powdered her neck and arms, performed sacred rites over her hair and nails,, donned a gown so complicated that a hotel maid had to hook her up the back, and was ready for her evening's escort at eight. There wasn't a hat in a grill room from one end of the Crooked At Cow-path to the other that was more wildly barbaric than Hattie's, even in these sane and simple days when the bird of paradise has become the na tional bird. The buyer of suits for a thriving department store In a hustling little mlddle-Western town Isn't to be Whenever a show came I neglected, to River Falls Hattie would look bored, pass a weary hand over her glossy coiffure and say: "Oh, yes. Clever little show. Saw it two win ters ago in New York. This won't be the original company, of course." The year that Hattie came back wearing a set of skunk everyone thought It was lynx until Hattie drew attention to what she called the "brown tone" In it. After that Old Lady Heinz got her old skunk fare out of the moth bails and tobacco and newspapers that bad preserved them, and her daughter cut them up into bands for the bottom of her skirt, and the cuffs of her coat. When Kiser ft Bloch had their fall and spring openings the town came ostensibly to see the new styles, bnt really to gaze at Hattie In a new confection, undulating up and down the department, talking with a heavy Eastern accent about this or that being "smart" or "good this year," or having "a world of style," and sort of trailing her toes after her to give a clinging, Grecian line, like pictures of Ethel Barrymore when she was thin. The year that Hattie con fided to some one that she was wear ï Ing only scant bloomers beneath her slinky silk the floor was mobbed, and they had to call in réservés ftom the basement ladies-and-mlsses-ready-to wear, Miss Stitch came to New York In March. On the evening of her arrival she dined with Fat Ed Meyers of the Strauss Sans-Sllk Skirt company. He informed her that she looked like a kid, and that that was some classy lit tle gown, and It wasn't every woman who could wear that kind of thing and get away with it It took a certain style. Hattie smiled, and hummed off-key to the tune the orchestra was playing, and Ed told her it was a shame she didn't do something with that voice. "I have something to tell you." said Hattie. "Just before I left I had a talk with old Kiser. Or rather, he had a talk with me. You know I have pretty much my own way In my de partment Pity if I couldn't have. I made it. Well, Kiser wanted to know why I didn't buy Featherlooms. I said we had no call for 'em, and he came back with figures to prove we're losing a good many hundreds a year by not carrying them. He said the Strass Sans-Sllk skirt Isn't what it used to be. And he's right," "Oh, say—" obje< ted Ed Meyers. "It's true," insisted Hattie. "But I couldn't tell him that I didn't buy Featherlooms because McChesney Besides, she never made me tired. entertains me when I'm in New York. Not that I'd go to the theater In the evening with a woman, because I wouldn't, but— Say, listen. Why don't you make a play for her Job? As long as I've got to put In a heavy Mne of Featherlooms you may as well tat th* benefit of it. You could double vour commissions. I'll bet that woman makes her I-don't-know-how many thousands a year." Ed Meyers' naturally ruddy com plexion took on a richer tone, and he dropped his f-rk hastily. As he gazed at Miss Stitch his glance was not more than half flattering. "How you women do love each other, don't you! You don't. I don't mind telling you my firm's cutting down its road force, and none of us knows who's going to be beheaded next. But—well—a guy wouldn't want to take a Job away from a woman—especially a square little trick like McChesney. Of course she's played me a couple of low-down deals and I promised to get back at her, but that's business. But—'' "8o's this," Interrupted Miss Hattie Stitch. "And I don't know that she is so square. Let me tell you that I heard she's no better than she might be. I have it on good authority that three weeks ago, at the River bouse, in our town—" Their heads came close together over the little, rose-shaded restaurant table. At 11 o'clock next morning Fat Ed Meyers walked Into the office of the T. A. Buck Featherloom Petticoat company and asked to see old T. A, "He's in Europe," a stenographer informed him, "spaing, and sprudel ing, and badening. Want to see T. A. Junior?" "T. A. Junior!" almost shouted Ed Meyers. "You don't mean to tell me that fellow's taken hoi—'' "Believe me. That's why Feather looms are soaring and Sans-Silks are sinking. Nobody would have believed it. T. A. Junior's got a live wire look ing like' a stick of licorice, they thought old T. A. was going to die, young T. A. seemed to straighten out all of a sudden and take hold. It's about time. He must be almost forty, but he don't show it I don't know, he ain't so good-looking, but he's got swell eyes." Ed Meyers turned the knob of the door marked "Private," and entered, smiling. Ed Meyers had a smile so cherubic that involuntarily you armed yourself against it. "'Hel-lo Buck!" he called Jovially "I hear that at last you're taking an interest in skirts—other than on the hoof." And he offered young T. A. a large, dark cigar with a fiissy-looking band encircling its middle. T. A. looked at it disinterestedly, and spake, saying: "What are you after?" "Why, I Just dropped in—" began Ed Meyers lamely. "The dropping," observed T. A. Junior, "is bad around here this morn ing. I have one little formula for all visitors today, regardless of whether they're book agents or skirt salesmen. TJiat is, what can I do for you?" Ed Meyers tucked his cigar neatly into the extreme right corner of his mouth, pushed his brown derby far back on his head, rested his strangely lean hands on his plump knees, and fixed T. A. Junior with a shrewd blue When Young I eye. ''That suits me fine," he agreed. "I never was one to beat around the bush. Look here. I know skirts from the draw-string to the ruffle. It's a woman's garment, but a man's line. There's 60 reasons why a woman can't handle it like a man. For one thing the packing cases weigh 26 pounds each, and she's as dependent on a packer and a porter as a baby is on its mother. Another Is that if a man bas to get up to make a train at 4 a. m. be don't require 25 minutes to fasten down three sets of garters, and braid his hair, and book his waist up the back, and miss his train. And he don't have neuralgic headaches. Then, the head of a skirt department in a store is a woman, ten times out of ten. And lemme tell you," he leaned forward earnestly, "a woman don't like to buy of a woman. Don't ask me why. I'm too modest. But it's the truth." "Well?" said young T. A., with the rising inflection. "Well," finished Ed Meyers, "I like your stuff. I think it's great. It's a seller, with the right man to push it. I'd like to handle it. And I'll guaran tee I could double the returns from your middle-western territory." T. A. Junior had strangely trans lucent eyes. Their luminous quality had an odd effect upon any one on whom he happened to turn them. He had been scrawling meaningless curly cues on a piece of paper as Ed Meyers talked. Now he put down the pencil, turned, and looked Ed Meyers fairly in the eye. "You mean you want Mrs. McChes eny'8 territory?" he asked quietly. "Well, yes, I do," confessed Ed Meyers, without a blush. Young T. A. swung back to his desk, tore from the pad before him the piece of paper on which he had been scrawling, crushed it, and tossed it into the wastebasket with an air of finality. "Take the second elevator down," he said. "The nearest one's out of order." For a moment Ed Meyers stared, his fat face purpling. "Oh, very well," he said, rising. "I Just made you a business proposition, that's ail. I thought I was talking to a business Now. old T. A.—" "That'll be about all," observed T. A. Junior, from his desk.' Ed Meyers started toward the door. Then he paused, turned, and came hack to his chair. His heavy jaw jutted out threateningly. "No, it ain't all, either. I didn't wagt to mention it, and if you'd treat ed me like a gentleman, I wouldn't bave. But I want to say to you that McChesney's giving this firm a black eye. Morals don't figure with a man ï on the road, but when a woman bi »fks man. into thin gut», she's got to be on the level." T. A. Junior rose. The blonde stenographer who had mate the ad miring remark anent his eyes would have appreciated those features now. They glowed luminously into Ed Meyers* pale blue ones until that gen tleman drooped his eyelids in con fusion. He seemed at a disadvantage in every way, as T. A- Junior's lean, graceful height towered over the fat man's bulk. "I don't know Mrs. McChesney," said T. A. Junior. "I haven't even seen her in six years. My interest In the business is very recent. I do know that my father swears she's the best salesman he has on the road. Before you go yy further I want to tell you that you'll have to prove what you lust implied, so definitely, and conclusively, and convincingly that when you finish you'll have an ordinary engineering blue-print look ing like a Turner landscape. Begin." Ed Meyers, still standing, clutched his derby tightly and began. "She's a looker, Emma is. And smooth! As the top of your desk. But she's getting careless. Now a decent, hard-working, straight girl like Hattie Stitch, of Kiser ft Bloch's, River Falls, won't buy of her. You'll find you don't sell that firm. And they buy big, too. Why, last summer I had it from the clerk of the hotel in that town that she ran around all day with a woman named LeHaye— Blanche LeHaye, of an aggregation of bum burlesquers called the Sam Levin Crackerjack Belles. And say, for a whole month there, she had a tough young kid traveling with her that she called her son. Oh, she's çueerlng your line, all right. The days are past when it used to be a signal for a loud, merry laugh If you mentioned you were selling goods on the road. It's a fine art, and a science these days, and the name of T. A. Buck has always stood for—'' Downstairs a trim, well-dressed, at tractive woman stepped into the ele vator and smiled radiantly upon the elevator man, who had smiled first. "Hello, Jake," she said. "What's old ln New York? I haven't been here in three months. It's good to be back." "Seems grand t' see you. Mis' Mc Chesney," returned Jake. "Well, noth in' much stirrln'. Whatcha think of the Grand Central? I unterstand they're going to have a contrivance so you can stand on a mat in the waiting-room and wish yourself down to the track an' train that you're leavin' on. The G'lnta.have picked a bunch of shines this season. T. A. Junior's got a new 60-power auto. Genevieve—that yella-headed steno— was married last month to Henry, the shipping clerk. My wife presented me with twin girls Monday. Well, thank you, Mrs. McChesney. I guess that'll help some." Emma McChesney swung down the hall and into the big, bright office. She paused at the head bookkeeper's desk. The head bookkeeper was a woman. Old Man Buck had learned something about the faithfulness of women employes. The head bookkeep er looked up and said some convinc ing things. "Thanks," said Emma, in return. "It's mighty good to be here. Is it true that skirts are going to be full in the back? How's business? T. A. in?" "Young T. A. Is. But I think he's busy just now. You know T. A. Senior isn't back yet. He had a tight squeeze, I guess. Everybody's 7 ter" la te â ' » ( c t "Honestly, I'd Wear It Myself.' talking about the way young T. A. took hold. You know he spent years running around Europe, and he made a specialty of first nights, and first editions, and French cars when he did show up here. But now! He's changed the advertising, and design Ing. and cutting departments around here until there's as much difference between this place now and the place It was three months ago as there Is between a hoop-skirt and a hobble. He designed one skirt— Here, Miss Kelly! Just go in and get one of those embroidery flounce models for Mrs. McChesney. How's that? Hon estly, I'd wear It myself." Emma McChesney held the garment in her two hands and looked it over critically. Her eyes narrowed thoxsht fully. She looked up to reply wnen the door of T. A. Buck's private office open-id, and Ed Meyers walked briskly out. Mmma McChesney put down the skirt and crossed the office so that she and he met Just in front of the little gate that formed an entrance along the railing. Ed Wevor*' month twisted itself into a smile. He put out a welcom ing hand. Why, hello, stranger! When did you drive in? How's every little thing? I'm darned if you don't grow prettier and younger every day of your sweet life." "Quit Sans-Silks?" inquired Mrs. Mc Chesney briefly. "Why—no. But I was Just telling young T. A. in there that if I could ■only find a nice, paying little gents' furnishing business in a live little town that wasn't swamped with that kind of thing already I'd buy It, by George! I'm tired of this peddling." "Sing that," said Emma McChesney. "It might sound better," and marched into the office marked "Private." T. A. Junior's good-looking back and semi-bald head were toward her as she entered. She noted, approv ingly, woman-fashion, that his neck would never lap over the edge of his collar in the back. Then young T. A. turned about. He gazed at Emma Mc Chesney, his eyebrows raised Inquir ingly. Emma McChesney's honest blue eyes, with no translucent non sense about them, gazed straight back at T. A. Junior. "I'm Mrs. McChesney. I got in half an hour ago. It's been a good little trip, considering business, and politics, and all that. I'm sorry to hear your father's still ill. He and I always talked over things after my long trip." Young T. A.'s expert eye did not miss a single point, from the tip of Mrs. McChesney's smart spring hat to the toes of her well-shod feet, with full stops for the fit of her tailored suit, the freshness of her gloves, the clearness of her healthy pink skin, the wave of her soft, bright hair. "How do you do, Mrs, McChesney," said Young T. A. emphatically. "Please sit down. It's a good idea— this talking over your trip. There are several little things—now Kiser ft Bloch, of River Falls, for instance. We ought to be selling them. The head of their skirt and suit depart ment is named Stitch, isn't she? Now, what would you say of Miss Stitch?" "Say?" repeated Emma McChesney quickly. "As a woman, or a buyer?" T. A. Junior thought a minute. "As a woman." Mrs. McChesney thoughtfully regard ed the tips of her neatly gloved bands. Then she looked up. "The kindest and gentlest thing I can say about her is that if she'd let her hair grow out gray maybe her face wouldn't look so hard." T. A. Junior flung himself back in his chair and threw back his head and laughed at the celling. "Then, "How old is your son?" with disconcerting suddenness. "Jock's scandalously near eighteen." In her quick mind Emma McChesney was piecing odds and ends together, and shaping the whole to fit Fat Ed Meyers. A little righteous anger was rising within her. T. A. Junior searched her face with his glowing eyes. "Does my father know that you have a young man son? Queer you never mentioned it." "Queer? Maybe. Also, I don't re member ever having mentioned what church my folks belonged to, or where I was born, or whether I like my steak rare or medium, or what my maiden name was, or the size of my shoes, or whether I take my coffee with or without. That's because I don't be lieve }n dragging private and family affairs Into the business relation. I think I ought to tell you that on the way In I met Ed Meyers of the Strauss Sans-Sllk Skirt company, com ing out. So anything you say won't surprise me." "You wouldn't be surprised?" asked T. A. Junior Bmuothly, "If I were to say that I'm considering giving a ™.n your territory?" Emma McChesney's eyes — those eyes that had seen so much of the world and its ways, and that still | could return your gaze so clearly and honestly—widened until they looked so much like those of a hurt child, or » dumb animal that has received a death wound, that young T. A. dropped his gaze in confusion, Emma McChesney stood up. breath came a little quickly. But when she spoke, her voice was low and almost steady, "If you expect me to beg you for my Job, you're mistaken. T. A. Buck's Featherloom petticoats have been my existence for almost ten years. I've sold Featherlooms six days in the week, and seven when I had a Sun day customer. They've not only been Her ihWrlr « K îoljül m i W "If You Expect Me to Beg You for My Job, You're Mistaken. my business and my means of earning a livelihood, they've been my religion, my diversion, my life, my pet pastime. I've lived petticoats, I've talked petti coats, I've sold petticoats, I've dreamed petticoats—why, I've even worn the darned things! And that's more than any man will ever do for you." Young T. A. rose. He laughed a little laugh of sheer admiration. Ad miration shone, too, in those eyes of his which so many women found ir resistible. He took a step forward and laid one well-shaped hand on Emma McChesney's arm. She did not shrink, so he let his hand slip down the neat blue serge sleeve until it reached her snugly-gloved hand. "You're all right!" he said. His. voice was very low, and there was a new note in it. "Listen, girlie. I've just bought a new sixty-power ma chine. Have dinner with me tonight, will you? And we'll take a run out in the country somewhere. It's warm, even for March. I'll bring along a fur coat for you. H'm?" Mrs. McChesney stood thoughtfully regarding the hand that covered her own. The blue of her eyes and the pink of her cheeks were a marvel to behold. "It's a shame," she began slowly, "that you're not twenty-five years younger, so that your father could give you the licking you deserve when he comes home. I shouldn't be sur prised if he'd do it anyway. The Lord preserve me from these quiet, deep devilB with temperamental hands and luminous eyes. Give me one of the bull-necked, red-faced, hoarse-voiced, fresh kind every time. You know what they're going to say, at least, and you're prepared for them. If I were to tell you how the hand you're holding is tingling to box your ears you'd marvel that any human being could have that much repression and live. I've heard of this kind of thing, but I didn't know it happened often off the stage and outside of novels. Let's get down to cases. If I let you make love to me, I keep my job. Is that it?" "Why—no—I—to tell the truth 1 was only—" "Don't embarrass yourself. I Just want to tell you that before I'd accept your auto ride I'd open a little fancy art goods and needlework store in Menominee, Michigan, and get out the newest things in Hardanger work and Egyptian embroidery. And that's my notion of zero in occupation. Besides, no plain, everyday working woman could enjoy herself in your car, be cause her conscience wouldh't let her. She'd be thinking all the time how she was depriving some poor, hard-work ing chorus girl of her legitimate pas time, and that would spoil everything. The elevator man told me that you had a new motor car, but the news didn't interest me half as much as DRAMA FOUND IN EVERYTHING Philosophical Tribute to the Morbidly Curious, Who Are 8ubject to Much Criticism. Dickens noted in his day—as I in mine—how casual people in the street would flatten their noses against the window of a chemist's shop in order to catch a glimpse of some little surgical repair which the victim of a trivial ac cldeni might be undergoing In the back parlor. "Morbid cariosity," says the superior person, who may none the less have taken his own measures to become ac quainted with each gory detail. The superior person Is notoriously short sighted and may even be said to wear blinkers; the nose flatteners are not. perhaps, articulate, and can give no philosophical description of the promptings which move them, hut they are swayed, however, uncon sclously, by the excitation of their dra matic sense. They are doing reverence, though ignorant, to the foundation truth that there is drama in everything and even in nothing.—Percy Clare. In London Chronicle. / Heroine Fights in Trenches. Paris, France.—Among the wounded brought to Noisy-le-Sec, a town in the department of the Seine and near the Ourcq candi, was a young laundress In a soldier's uniform. She had followed a company of zouaves and had fought alongside of them In the trenches. Her identity was not discovered until she _wounded. Before sending her to the rear the commanding officer com plimented her on her bravery. In a Hurry. "De road to de bad place may be paved wld good intentions," said Raa tus Johnsing, "but ah ain't see no body Tested for breaking de speed laws goto' dere." that of his having new twin girls. Anything with five thousand dollars can have a sixty-power machine, but only an elevator man! on eight dollars a week can afford the luxury of twins." "My dear Mrs. McChesney—" "Don't," said Emma McChesney sharply. "I couldn't ijitand much more. I joke, you know, wljien other women cry. It isn't so wearing." She turned abruptly and walked toward the door. Tl A. Junior over took her in three iong strides, and placed himself directly before her. "My cue," said Emma McChesney, with a weary brightness, "to say, 'Let me pass, sir!'" "Please don't." pleaded T. A. Junior. 'Til remember this the rest of my life. I thought I was a statue of modern business methods, but after today I'm going to ask the offibe boy to help me run this thing. If Ï could only think of some special way to apologize to you—" "Oh, it's all right," said Emma Mc Chesney indifferently. "But it isn't! It isn't! You don't understand. That human jellyfish of a Meyers said some things, and I thought I'd be clever and prove them. I can't ask your pardon. There aren't words enough in the language. Why, you're the finest liftle woman—you're —you'd restore the faith of a cynic who had chronic indigestion. I wish I— Say, let me relieve you of a cou ple of those small towns that you hate to make, and give you Cleveland and Cincinnati. And let me— Why say, Mrs. McChesney! Please! Don't! This Isn't the time to—'' "I can't help it,? sobbed Emma Me Chesney, her two handB before her face. "I'll stop inf a minute. There; I'm stopping now. For heaven's sake, stop patting me on the head!" "Please don't bb so decent to me," entreated T. A. Junior, his fine eyes more luminous than ever. "If only you'd try to get bfick at me I wouldn't feel so cut up about it." Emma McChesney looked up at him, a smile shining radiantly through the tears. "Very well. I'll do it. Just before I came in they whowed me that new embroidery-flounced model you just designed. Maybe you don't know it, but women wear only one limp petti coat nowadays. And buttoned shoes. The eyelets in that embroidery are Just big enough to catch on the top button of a woman's shoe, and tear, and trip her. I ought to have let you make up a couple of million of them, and then watch them come back on your hands. I yvas going to tell you, anyway, for T. A. Senior's sake. Now I'm doing it for your own." "For—" begad T. A. Junior excited ly. And found himself addressing the backs of the letters on the door marked "Private," as it slammed after the trim, erect figure in blue. Badly Treated Book. To restore to good condition the leaves of the valuable book that have been defaced lpy careless treatment, rub the soiled parts gently with a piece of bread; then cover the spots that remain (except those upon which there Is printing) with blotting paper dampened in aj solution of oxalic acid. This will be p)repared by a druggist Then pass a hot iron over the blot ting paper until it dries. To remove the deep creases in the leaves, put the leaves between two pieces of white blotting papek-, slightly dampened, and press wltlji a warm Iron until the page is quite Smooth. Anklets Like Phonograph Disks. The women of southern Nigeria wear extraordinary brass anklets, shaped like gramophone record« which are riveted on to their legs at an early age, and are never again taken off. Walking In them, as will be readily imagined, la very difficult, and necessitates keeping the legs far apart; while jrunning is altogether out of the question. The disks are kept highly polished, and when the women walk in long files to market the sight of their anklets flashing in the ... «un excites the envy of their poorer, but more comfortable sisters.—Wide World Magazine. Theories and Things. Only the Other day I listened to a lecturer on sun-spots expatiating on the enfranchising and ennobling pow er of his science, teaching as it does the majesty) of God and his hand! w °* k - ' »Ei'eed. of course. Theoreti cally, I knew he was right; yet, as for myself, I could not help preferring to wonder at the hand of the Almighty In the creation of a dandelion, a spar row. a flounder.—Robert M Gav the Atlantic. in Upward. Make each day a critic on Ut laat—Pope. Make Tour Gifts Substantial aad Practica) » Silverware « Jewelry of the right qual ity will lal a lifetime. Come am) make yam rejection« now lot the holiday«. r. UTAH Makars of Jewelry .SALT LAKE O* * Jh mm HÙÜ: 444 - c 2 c oj Fire Escapes, Wire Work and; Ornamental Iron Work of Every Description. Crager Wire & Iron Works Salt Lake City. Utah A POSITIVE ..d PER MANENT CTJRE FOR Liquor and Drug Addictions prinShra »llldTt, Uh«. THE KEELEY IN 334 W. 3»>tfc Twiplc Street, Salt Uke Gtr WlNTFn MEN AND women«» h»nt b»rb«r trade. Excellent opportunities open, for you. Tools furnished and com mission paid while learning. Only eight weeks required. Gall or write for particulars and cat alog, 13 Commercial Street. Halt Lake City, Utah. A Startling Answer. MT. Brown had just bad a telephone put in connecting his office and house, and was much pleased with it. "I tell you, the telephone is a won derful thing. I want you to dine with me this evening, and I will notify Mire. Brown to expect you." Speaking through the telephone: "My friend Smith will dine with us this evening." - Then to his friend: "Now listen and hear how plain her reply cornea back." Mrs. Brown's reply came back with startling distinctness. "Ask your friend Smith if he thinks we keep a hotel." Placing the Blame. A teacher, instructing her class lm the composition of sentences, wrote two on the blackboard, ene a mis statement of fact, and the other wrong grammatically. The sentences were: "The hen has three legs," and "Who done it?" "Harry," she said te ene of < 11 » youngsters, "go to the blackboard and show where the fault Dee in these two sentences." Harry slowly approached the board, evidently studying hard. Then he took the crayon and wrote: "The hen never done it. Ged done it." A Hint for Sick People. We advise sufferers from catarrh and chronic diseases to send direct to tha Emekay company, box 997-z, Salt Lake City, Utah, for self diagnosis olanks and free medical book. They re fund money If no benefit results. Adv. When the Minister Was Puzzled. At a marriage serviee performed some time ago in a little country church In Georgia, when the minister said in a solemn tone: "Wilt thou have this man to be thy wedded hus band?" instead of the woman answer ing for herself, a gruff man's voice answered, "I will." Again the minister looked np sur prised, not knowing what to make of it, when one of the groomsmen at th» end of the row said: ''She is deaf. I am answering for her."—Lipplncott's. He Did Not Blame Them. The new baby had proved Itself the possessor of extraordinary power. One day baby's brother, lit tle Johnny, said to his mother: "Ma, little brother eame from heaven, didn't he?" "Yes, dear," answered the mother. Johnny was silent for a moment, and then he went on: "I say, ma." "What Is it,.Johnny?" "I don't blame the angels 1er sling ing him out, do you?" lung Sho Had Been Away Before. A fond husband was seeing his wir» off with the children for their sum mer vacation in the country. As sh» got into the train he said, "lty dear, won't you take some fiction to read?" "Oh, no," she responded, sweetly. "1 shall depend upon your letters from home." j The Cause. Little Willie—How did yon get th» red marks on your nose, Uncle Dai? Uncle Dai—Glasses, my bey, glasses. Little Willie—Glasses ef what, Un a Dai?—Western Mail. New Management "This hotel is under a sew ment" Why, I still see the eld proprietor around." "Yes; week.''—Kansas City Journal. In Olden Daya. George Junior had just chopped down that cherry tree. "Pop." he said, just like that "let's bury the hatchet" Which shows how easy It is to origi nate an historic phrase. manage but he got married last "I ®ee «orne philosopher says that the only way to cure yourself of a love affair is to run away. Do you believe it?" "Certainly—If you run away with the girl." 7 "" - The Cure. Conscience. Maid (knocking in the morning) "Madame. I've forgotten whether wanted to be waked at i eight?" "What time is it now?" •Eight''— Lustige Blatter. you