during the heat of a campaign where they serve out cocktails and revolvers to all comers.

The governor was a candidate for re-election, and being a hustler, made many hot speeches from the hustings.

Some of the opposition had gathered in front of the hall, and with the idea of making him nervous, interrupted every little while just when he was waxing eloquent.

One very homely-looking man insisted on asking a question about every five minutes.

He usually prefaced them by such remarks as "Just a minute, please," or "Let me interrupt for a minute."

Finally, in an unhappy moment, he broke in with:

"Pardon me, but——"

Before he could finish, the governor, quickly seizing his long-awaited opportunity, replied:

"Well, I've pardoned worse looking fellows than you in my time, and I suppose it would be unjust to draw the line now."

You bet there were no more interruptions after that.

Some of you know Claude de Forrest, the actor.

He occasionally finds an engagement, but never twice with the same manager.

And yet Claude has his good points, and can do some stunts in his line.

Last winter he was playing at the same house where I had an engagement.

As the hero of the play he had just died a glorious stage death.

Loud and long the audience applauded.

At last he appeared before the curtain.

"Ladies and gentlemen," he said, "as you insist on having a man who died a few minutes ago come to life and appear before you with a bow and a smile, I am here to comply with your wish.

"By way of destroying the illusion still further I will, with your permission, occupy the time while the stage is being made ready for the next act by reciting 'Hooligan at the Bat.'"

Which he proceeded to do.

And I fancy those misguided people soon wished they had not resurrected him so soon.

When you manage to run across an original man it pays to cultivate his acquaintance.

Hobbyhead has been a gold mine to me.

Whenever I have an attack of the blues I just hunt him up, and ten to one forget all my troubles.

A few more of his sort would make a stampede among the physicians out our way.

To tell the truth, every humorist knocks out a dozen doctors.

We were chatting the other day about things sacred and profane, when I chanced in the course of some remarks to mention that when Gabriel blew his horn on the final resurrection morn a good many persons would be surprised at the company they kept.

"Humph," grunted Hobbyhead, "don't you believe that our friend Gabriel will be the only trumpet sounder at the grand round-up."

"Why don't you think he won't?" I asked.

"Because every self-made man will insist on blowing his own horn."

While we were taking a walk through the country we met a farmer driving a fine bull in to market.

Both of us commented on the fact that it had a scrubby tail, and when Hobbyhead insisted on addressing the man I knew he had conceived a bright thought.

"I suppose, my friend, you'll have to sell that beast wholesale," he said.

The owner came from his reverie.

"What fer?"

"Well," assured my solemn friend, nodding his head