penetration. How long a run?"

"One consecutive night," said the Bibliomaniac.

"Ah--and where?" demanded the Idiot with a smile.

"At Bloomingdale," answered the Bibliomaniac severely.

"That's a very good idea," said the Idiot. "When you go back there, Mr.
Bib, I wish you'd suggest it to the Superintendent."




WAMSLEY'S AUTOMATIC PASTOR

BY FRANK CRANE


"Yes, sir," said the short, chunky man, as he leaned back against the
gorgeous upholstery of his seat in the smoking compartment of the
sleeping-car; "yes, sir, I knew you was a preacher the minute I laid
eyes on you. You don't wear your collar buttoned behind, nor a black
thingumbob over your shirt front, nor Presbyterian whiskers, nor a
little gold cross on a black string watch chain; them's the usual marks,
I know, and you hain't got any of 'em. But I knew you just the same. You
can't fool J.P. Wamsley. You see, there's a peculiar air about a man
that's accustomed to handle any particular line of goods. You can tell
'em all, if you'll just notice,--any of 'em,--white-goods counter,
lawyer, doctor, travelin' man, politician, railroad,--every one of 'em's