Saratoga is John J. Sousebuilder, the well-known millionaire from Cincinnati. He is here to follow the races but he seems to have an idea that the horses live in the hotel bar-room, because that is where he does most of his following.

Cornelius Sudslifter, the well-known inventor of the patent chowless chow chow, is paying deep attention to Esmeralda Ganderface, the brilliant daughter of old man Tightfist Ganderface, the millionaire inventor of a system of opening clams by steam. Cornelius and Esmeralda make a sweet and beautiful picture as they stroll arm in arm to the post-office, where Cornelius mails a check for the week's alimony to his former wife, who is visiting lawyers in South Dakota.

Hector J. Roobernik, well known in Society, is spending the summer at Atlantic City. Hector was formerly a Bohemian glass blower, but he is now rich enough to leave off the last part of his occupation, so he calls himself just a Bohemian—which is different. Hector is paying deep attention to Phyllis Kurdsheimer, the daughter of Mike Kurdsheimer, the millionaire inventor of the slippery elm shoe horn.

Gus Beanhoister, the widely known bunion broker and Society man of South Newark, is summering at Cape May, where he mingles with the other pets of fashion. Gus finds it very hard to refrain from looking at people's feet during the bathing hours, but otherwise he is doing quite well.

Hank Schmitpickle and his latest wife from Chicago sailed on the steamship Minnehaha last week to spend the season in the British capital. The Schmitpickles will occupy the villa at No. 714 Cottagecheese Place, Blitheringham Park, near Speakeasy Towers, on the Old Kent Road, Bayswater, across from Shoreditch—God save the King!

Mercedes Cauliflower is summering at Narragansett Pier, and her fiance, Mr. Peter Cuckoobird, is dancing attendance upon her. It will be remembered that Mercedes is the daughter and heiress of Jacob Cauliflower, the millionaire manufacturer of boneless tripe, which has become quite a fad in Society since the Beef Trust got chesty. Peter Cuckoobird is a rising young brick-layer on his father's side, but on account of the fortune left him by his mother, he is now butterflying through life in a gasolene barouche with diamond settings in the tires.

Hank Dobbs and his daughter, Crystaline, sailed on the Oceanic yesterday for the Riviera. Before the steamship pulled out Hank admitted that he didn't know whether the Riviera was a city or a new kind of cheese, but if money could do the trick he intended to know the truth.

Mr. and Mrs. James Shine von Shine were divorced yesterday at the home of the bride's parents in Newport. The ceremony was very simple but expensive to the ex-husband. Considerable alimony changed hands.

The private cottage of Mrs. Offulrich Swellswell at Bar Harbor has been beautifully decorated in honor of the approaching divorce of their daughter, Gladys, from her husband, Percy Skiddoo. Percy is the well-known manufacturer of the reversible two-step so much used by Society.

Cards are all out for a divorce in the family of the Von Guzzles, but owing to a typographical error in the cards it is impossible to say whether it is the old man or the son. Both employ blonde typewriters.

JOHN HENEY ON GREAT MEN

Uncle Peter is one of the gamest little chunks of humanity that ever looked the world in the eye, but when he heard the edict put forth by Doctor Osler the old man went overboard with a splash.

He was under water a long time.

He thought the Bogey Man had him for sure.

Uncle Peter felt that it would no longer be possible for him to pass a drug store without some young fellow rushing out with a handkerchief full of chloroform and yelling, "Here, you old chestnut! here's where you get it in the nose!"

In the dark watches of the night Uncle Peter used to wake up covered with cold perspiration, because he had dreamed that Doc Osler was pounding him on the bald spot with a baseball bat after having poured hair dye all over his breakfast food.

At last Uncle Peter got so nervous I advised him to write to the
Doctor.

"Ask him if he won't commute your sentence because you live in the country and are a commuter," I suggested.

The doctor replied to Uncle Peter at once and I will try to translate his letter from Johns Hopkins into pure English, as near as I can remember:

JOHNS HOPKINS, To-day.

Dear Uncle Peter:—When I cut loose with the observation that men were all in at 40 and rauss mittim at 60 I kept several exceptions up my sleeve.

The exceptions include you, Uncle Peter, and myself also.

It could not apply in your case, Uncle Peter, because I have known you since we lived together in Baltimore many moons ago, and I realize that the years have only improved you, Uncle Peter, and that to-day you are a bigger shine than you ever were.

One point about my observation which seems to have escaped the eyes of the general public, but which you suggest so delicately in your letter, Uncle Peter, will be found in the beautiful words of the poet who says:

  Some advertisement now and then
  Is needed by the greatest men!

Don't mention it, Uncle Peter, for what I tell you is confidential, but do you know that my little bunch of remarks, which cost me nothing anyway because I was invited to the banquet, have given me more widespread advertisement than Andy Carnegie can get for eighteen public libraries?

You know, Uncle Peter, there is nothing in the world so easy to make stand up on its hind legs as the general public if you just go after it right.

But the trick is, Uncle Peter, to know what to say and when to say it.

Look at my case and then tell me if it wasn't up to me to emit a rave.

There I was, just about to leave my native land to go to Oxford and become the squeegee professor in the Knowledge Factory and be all swallowed up in the London fog, but nobody seemed to miss me before I went away.

I began to feel lost, lonely and forgotten like a vice-president of the United States.

Then came the banquet, Uncle Peter, and like a flash the inspiration came to me and I arose in my seat and said, "Ladies and gentlemen, after a man reaches the age of 40 he is a seldom-happener, and after he gets to the age of 60 he is a dead rabbit and it's the woods for his."

What was the result, Uncle Peter?

Every man in the world felt that I was his personal insult.

Every man over 40 listened to what I said and began to yell for the police; and every man under 40 realized that he would be over 40 some day, so he began to look for a rock to throw at me.

I had them, going and coming.

Then the newspapers heard about it and where formerly in their columns was nothing but dull and harmless war news my picture began, to blossom forth like the flowers that bloom in the spring, tra la!

Pretty soon, Uncle Peter, every man, woman and child in the world began to know me and I couldn't walk out in the public streets without being snap-shotted or bowed to, or barked at, according to the age of those present.

Of course, we all know, Uncle Peter, that my theory has wormholes all over it, but didn't I make good?

We do not need a book or history to tell us that Julius Caesar was over forty before he ever saw the base of Pompey's statue; that Brutus and