that he is doing it because he cannot help it, he being an artist.
But we know well enough that, were we to stop throwing the pennies
into the cap, he would find out precious soon that he could.

The theatrical manager bangs his drum.

"Walk up! walk up!" he cries, "we are going to pretend that Mrs.
Johnson is a princess, and old man Johnson is going to pretend to be
a pirate. Walk up, walk up, and be in time!"

So Mrs. Johnson, pretending to be a princess, comes out of a wobbly
thing that we agree to pretend is a castle; and old man Johnson,
pretending to be a pirate, is pushed up and down on another wobbly
thing that we agree to pretend is the ocean. Mrs. Johnson pretends
to be in love with him, which we know she is not. And Johnson
pretends to be a very terrible person; and Mrs. Johnson pretends,
till eleven o'clock, to believe it. And we pay prices, varying from
a shilling to half-a-sovereign, to sit for two hours and listen to
them.

But as I explained at the beginning, my friend is a mad sort of
person.



IS THE AMERICAN HUSBAND MADE ENTIRELY OF STAINED GLASS.



I am glad I am not an American husband. At first sight this may