like to see them, that's all!"

An odd figure a trifle removed from the group had attracted the notice of one reporting these proceedings, by a propensity which he evinced, perceived by a kind of mental telepathy, to have some remarks directed to him. One felt all through one, so to speak, the near presence of a disposition eminently social. As one's sight became more accustomed to the interior light this figure defined itself into that of an elderly man, somewhat angular, slightly stooped, and wearing a ministerial sort of straw hat, with a large rolling brim, considerably frayed; a man very kindly in effect, and suggesting to a contemplative observer of humanity a character whose walk in life is cutting grass for people.

This gentleman (there was something very gentlemanly about him, not in haberdashery, but, as one read him, in spirit) showed, as was said, a decided inclination to, as less gentlemanly folks say, "butt in."

"Here is a thing now," spoke up this old fellow, looking up from his newspaper, over his iron-rimmed spectacles in a more determined manner than heretofore, at one who reports him, and speaking in that tone in which it is the habit of genial men traveling in railroad trains to open a conversation with their seat-fellow for the journey, "that draws my attention." In the racing term, he was "off."

"You know there is a strict law against swearing over the telephone," he paused for acquiescence. "Well, there is," he stated, very seriously, drawing a little nearer as the acquaintance got on—"a strict law. Now they say they can't stop it. It's a queer thing they can't stop it. They know who's at the other end; or at least they know who owns the 'phone. They know that. A fine of fifty dollars," he declared, "would stop it." It strikes one that this kindly character is almost ferocious on the side of morality.

"Now," he continued, "there is no use in that. Say what you have to say, that's all that's necessary. What's the good of all those ad-ject-ives?" He pronounced the last word in three syllables with a very decided accent on the second. "That is done, now," he concluded, "by people who are, well—abrupt. Ain't that right, now? It's abrupt, that's what it is; it's abrupt.

"Most assuredly," he said, answering himself.

III

AS TO OFFICE BOYS

MR. MACCRARY is in the real estate business. It is incident to Mr. MacCrary's business that he has to employ an office boy. This position as factotum in the office of Mr. MacCrary is subject to much vicissitude.

The first of the interesting line of boys successively employed by Mr. MacCrary was an office boy by profession; by natural talent and inclination he was a liar. He was a gifted liar, a brilliant and a versatile liar; a liar of resource, of imagination. He was a liar of something very near to genius. He lied for the love of lying. With him a lie was a thing of art. An artist for art's sake, he, and for art's sake alone. Like an amateur in short, a distinguished amateur, who is too proud to sell his lies, but willingly gives one away, now and then to some highly valued and much admiring friend. This boy would start with a little lie, then, as he progressed in his story, the wonderful possibilities of the thing would open up before him; he would grasp them and contort them, twist them into shape, and produce, create, a thing magnificent, stupendous, a thing which fairly made one gasp. He, a mere boy! It was wonderful.

On the last day he came into the office and said: "Runaway down the street, Mr. MacCrary."

"Is that so?" said Mr. MacCrary.

"Yes," said the boy, "ran over a woman, killed her dead."

"You don't say!" exclaimed Mr. MacCrary.

"I should say so," said the boy; "killed the baby in her arms, too."

"What!" cried Mr. MacCrary, "did she have a baby in her arms?"

"And that ain't all," continued the boy, "ran on down the street and into a trolley car."

"And killed all the passengers!" exclaimed Mr. MacCrary.

"And the conductor," added the boy, "broke all the horse's legs, smashed the wagon, driver went insane from scare. They're shootin' the horse now," said the boy.

Mr. MacCrary dismissed this boy that he might find a sphere more suited to his ability than the real estate business, which, to tell the truth, was evidently a little bourgeoise for his genius.

The next boy was not particularly gifted in any direction, but he was mysterious. Upon a client's coming into the office during Mr. MacCrary's absence he, the client, was sure to be impressed by two circumstances: First, that there was no one in the office until he entered; secondly, that the boy had strangely appeared from nowhere in particular, and was following in close upon his heels. This consistently illustrates the whole course of this boy's conduct throughout the time he remained with Mr. MacCrary.

The third boy, that is the present one, is not exactly mysterious, but he is peculiar. He attends strictly to his own business. He believes himself to be here for that purpose, apparently. He does not meddle with Mr. MacCrary's business. That is no concern of his. He is imbued with the good old adage: "If you want a thing well done, do it yourself." He follows this excellent principle himself, and believes others should do likewise. This boy is very sapient, and a wonderful student. His nature is more receptive than creative. He procures heavy sheep-skin-bound volumes from the circulating library, and his taste in literature, for one of his age, is unique. These books generally relate to primitive man, and contain exciting engravings of his stone hatchets and cooking utensils. He is also fond of perusing horticulture journals, these being the only magazines which he enjoys. When the first of these appeared about the office, Mr. MacCrary picked up one and inquired:

"What is this, James?"

"Oh!" exclaimed James, "there's some fine pictures of berries in there." James is too scholarly for real estate, and will soon, no doubt, follow in the way of his earlier predecessor to the intellectual life.

IV

A CONQUEROR'S ATTACK

ON the post-office store porch an old brindled Dane dog, town loafer, was asleep on his back. Chickens wallowed in the road. A baby crawled from behind a barrel at the post-office store door. A quorum was met on the hotel porch across the way. The butcher and the cobbler came forth from dove-cot shops to pass the time of day. The villagers come in ones and twos to get their mail. One, a fair, freckled milk-maid, as it would seem, from some old story, stands on the sidewalk path, waiting for the mail to be "sorted." A willowy lass, one would say a "summer boarder," pokes her parasol musingly through a knot-hole in the porch floor. The shop next door is a "dry goods and notions" store; butter and peaches and cherries and roses and cream in the shape of a feminine clerk leans beneath the low lintel, and, one can guess, like the old dog, dreams. The one of brave days of the past, perchance; the other, perchance, of conquests to come.

A fat fly buzzes leisurely about the door, then suddenly takes a straight line a considerable distance down the straggling street, pauses, circles about, returns, now through the early sunshine, now through the shadow of a venerable tree, back to the shelter of the