Yours fondly,
GLADYS JONES.

P.S.--The furniture which he threw was not his property to dispose
of. G.J.


When my wife got a flash of this letter she made a kick to the
effect that it was some kind of a cypher, possibly the beginning of
a secret correspondence.

It was up to me to hand Gladys the frosty get-back, so this is what
I said:


Respected Madam:--I'm a slob on that bridge whist thing, plain
poker being the only game with cards that ever coaxes my dough from
the stocking, but I'll do the advice gag if it chokes me:

Bridge whist is played with, cards, just like pinochle, with the
exception of the beer.

Not enough cards is a misdeal; too many cards is a mistake; and
cards up the sleeve is a slap on the front piazza if they catch you
at it.

You shouldn't get up and dance the snakentine dance every time you
take a trick. It looks more genteel and picturesque to do the
two-step.