Riding uptown on the elevated the other night, I noticed a parson sitting on one of the cross-seats, and he was evidently trying to extend sympathy to the cadaverous-looking young man who sat opposite him.
"Pardon me, sir," said the churchman; "but you look worn out. You know he who dissipates——"
"No, parson, it ain't dissipation. The truth is I'm most dead. I had about forty letters to write this afternoon."
"Why didn't you dictate them?" asked the parson.
"No typewriter."
"What's become of her?"
"I married her."
"Get another."
"Can't."
"Why not?"