"I try to," returned the Idiot, meekly. "If the papers don't take 'em, I
find them useful in curing my genial friend who imbibes of insomnia."

"What do you write--advertisements?" queried the Bibliomaniac.

"No. Advertisement writing is an art to which I dare not aspire. It's
too great a tax on the brain," replied the Idiot.

"Tax on what?" asked the Doctor. He was going to squelch the Idiot.

"The brain," returned the latter, not ready to be squelched. "It's a
little thing people use to think with, Doctor. I'd advise you to get
one." Then he added, "I write poems and foreign letters mostly."

"I did not know that you had ever been abroad," said the clergyman.

[Illustration: "'YOU DON'T MEAN TO SAY THAT YOU WRITE FOR THE
PAPERS?'"]

"I never have," returned the Idiot.

"Then how, may I ask," said Mr. Whitechoker, severely, "how can you
write foreign letters?"

"With my stub pen, of course," replied the Idiot. "How did you
suppose--with an oyster-knife?"

The clergyman sighed.

"I should like to hear some of your poems," said the Poet.