ambitions--just the same as the man who wants to be president, or the
grocery clerk who wants a home in Flatbush, or a lady who is anxious
to flop out of the Count-pan into the Prince-fire. And I hope I may be
allowed to say, without chipping into the contribution basket, that they
often move in a mysterious way their wonders to perform.

But, listen.

At the first performance of "Mice Will Play" in New York at the
Westphalia (no hams alluded to) Theatre, Winona Cherry was nervous. When
she fired at the photograph of the Eastern beauty on the mantel, the
bullet, instead of penetrating the photo and then striking the disk,
went into the lower left side of Bob Hart's neck. Not expecting to get
it there, Hart collapsed neatly, while Cherry fainted in a most artistic
manner.

The audience, surmising that they viewed a comedy instead of a tragedy
in which the principals were married or reconciled, applauded with great
enjoyment. The Cool Head, who always graces such occasions, rang the
curtain down, and two platoons of scene shifters respectively and more
or less respectfully removed Hart & Cherry from the stage. The next turn
went on, and all went as merry as an alimony bell.

The stage hands found a young doctor at the stage entrance who was
waiting for a patient with a decoction of Am. B'ty roses. The doctor
examined Hart carefully and laughed heartily.

"No headlines for you, Old Sport," was his diagnosis. "If it had been
two inches to the left it would have undermined the carotid artery as
far as the Red Front Drug Store in Flatbush and Back Again. As it is,