"I hardly think so," said the seedy party, trying to draw his hand away; "I did not own this overcoat then."
"No," said Barnes, "I know you didn't; but I did."
Grace Hazard has a washlady. Washlady has a thirteen-year-old son. Son became infected with the acting germ and ran away to go with Gertrude Hoffman's Company. His mother was telling Miss Hazard about it.
"'Deed, Mis' Hazard, yo' know 'tain't right for dat po' li'le innocent child to be pesterin' roun' dem theater houses dat er way. 'Twas jes' dis ver' mo'nin' dat he's Sunday-school teacher wuz sayin' to me: 'Dat boy has got too much—too much—intelligence to be in dat stage bus'ness nohow.'"
Hanging in each room of the Great Southern Hotel at Gulfport, Miss., is a small sign stating—
GUESTS CAN HAVE BATHS PREPARED
ON THEIR FLOOR BY APPLYING
TO THE MAID ON THEIR FLOOR.
A friend of mine in St. Louis is a Police Captain. One day he went into a bank to get a check cashed. He was in citizen's clothes and the paying teller did not know him anyway; so he said,