"Ah, gentlemen, I fear I'm intruding." The mayor, however, made no sign of withdrawing.

Henry did not seem surprised. "Did you bring a glass, Bill?"

"Why, Henery, you do me an injustice. Purely a chance discovery, purely chance."

The mayor entered, took the glass that was offered him, and held it aloft. "There are subjects of national importance above mere party."

The visitor gulped to the toast. "A man must have his little drink." Henry raised the neck of the bottle.

"Especially when he's going to make a speech, as you would realize, Henery, were you a public servant."

"Especially when his wife's going to make a speech, as you would realize if you were a married-er-man.'

So the time passed pleasantly until Henry decided to reassume his marital obligations. Preparatory to doing this he smelled the mayor's breath and the mayor returned the courtesy. But neither of them could detect anything on the other. However, to make assurance doubly

The mayor looked at him in admiration. "Observe, Henery, that foresight is the true mark of greatness."

Toward the close of the above events Mrs. Hopkins and the assistant chairwoman were making a last minute inspection in the private dining-room.

Finding everything correct, even to the cherries in the grapefruit, each of the ladies drew a long breath and turned to the other.

Then Mrs. Hopkins turned to Henry, who was fortunately right at her elbow. "Why, what are you eating, Henry?" Henry swallowed hastily. "Just a mint, Maria."

"Indeed! Well, then, tell the head waiter to announce luncheon."

The waiter opened the dark-brown folding doors with a flourish.

"Banquet's ready."

There was an immediate hush in the room, broken only by a hysterical laugh from Henry.

Mrs. Hopkins turned to the visitor. "Shall we lead the way? Luncheon is served."

It was a very nice luncheon. During the course of the conversation the minister called all the way across the table to ask the visitor how he felt on the subject of prohibition.

The latter looked slowly around the table to find all eyes turned upon him.

"Why, very strongly, sir."

This answer pleased the ladies very much, but the minister asked the visitor to be more explicit.

The great man considered carefully. "There are some questions above mere legislation. The final tribunal in such matters is the individual's own conscience."

"Ha," burst out the mayor, "I indorse that!" He hurriedly made a note of the reply in his campaign note-book for future use, should he ever be confronted by such an emergency.

The parson reflected. "I believe I understand you, sir. You mean that because of legislation the individual loses the opportunity of practising voluntary restraint, and so, of winning a moral victory. Ladies and gentlemen, I consider that a very fine position to take."

Every one was pleased, especially the visitor, as people like to have others agree with them one way or another.

When the charlotte russe had been cleared away Mrs. Hopkins looked at her watch, and rose from the table, whereupon the other ladies looked at their watches, and rose likewise.

"Oh, I think he's just wonderful," Miss Jones whispered on the way to the dressing-room.

"Do you, dear? I knew you would find each other interesting."

When the ladies emerged again, Mrs. Hopkins looked up and down the room for the visitor. At last she spied him with her husband and the mayor in a far cor

ner.

Advancing toward them she adjusted her glasses to read.

"We will now lay the corner-stone." "Perhaps you would rather unveil a monument," Henry suggested.

Even Miss Jones could not help laughing at the idea, for of course every one

knew there were no monuments to be unveiled.

So they all went outside, the original little party plus the mayor who had decided to join them, and climbed into the Cadillac.

As both the visitor and Mrs. Hopkins were saving their voices for their speeches, Miss Jones kept up the conversation. The mayor was very quiet, too, as if he were going to make a speech, so Miss Jones talked about the playground, knowing that the visitor was interested in the subject; though, of course, she did not want to appear to be reminding him of his promise.

When they arrived at the lot where the corner-stone was to be laid, they found a large crowd already there.

As the clapping grew in volume at the sight of the great man, the mayor followed Mrs. Hopkins onto the platform and bowed again and again to the audi

ence.

In the meantime Mrs. Hopkins counted the chairs, and finding there was one too few, asked Henry to hand up a chair for the mayor. Then, with admirable presence of mind, she requested the mayor to make a few prefatory remarks, for, as every one knows, whenever mayors mount public platforms they are expected to have something to say.

After much hesitation he consented, if it should be clearly understood that his remarks were entirely extemporaneous.

By this time, the seats all having been filled, the conviction rapidly spread among the audience that it was time to begin. So Mrs. Hopkins stepped up to the rostrum and rapped for order.

Order was so profound that poor Henry felt he would hear his heart beat—if it would only resume operations.

The chairwoman announced that the mayor had condescended to make a few extemporaneous remarks. His name did not appear on the printed programme because it was uncertain until the last moment whether his official duties would permit his presence, and therefore the committee had not wanted to arouse perhaps false hopes in the audience.

Whereupon the mayor rose, and on that day made a lifelong reputation as an extemporaneous speaker.

As it was now Mrs. Hopkins' turn to make a few remarks, Henry closed his eyes very tight, and sank down as low as possible in the little front-row chair that had been reserved for him. Indeed, he stayed in that position until the last echoes of his wife's utterances had died away, whereupon he sprang excitedly to his feet and said "hooray," dropping back again even more quickly, as he realized the enormity of his conduct.

Every one, however, thought this such a fine example of connubial concern that they applauded as much for him, had he only known it, as they did for Mrs. Hopkins.

The great man now rose momentously to his feet to acknowledge the storm of cheers that greeted him.

It is impossible here to give anything but the gist of the visitor's speech, but any one who is interested further in the matter will find the full text in the following number of The Weekly Courier.

Poor Miss Jones was all in a flutter lest the great man should forget his promise. But such gentlemen never forget, so even before she was aware that he was leading up to the subject at all, he was paving the way for a stirring appeal by recounting how, as a boy, he had perhaps laid the foundations of his future greatness by the hours he had spent in public playgrounds.

Of course, he had done a lot of other things, as a boy, to lay the foundations, such as selling newspapers, doing the chores on a farm, all excellent training, as any farmer present would realize. However, he happened to be talking about this particular phase of his boyhood at present.

"And now, ladies and gentlemen, there is a lady present, a most charming lady," he said, turning toward Miss Jones, who suddenly became red but happy, "who is, I understand, a firm advocate of a children's playground."

He became aware of an expression of frowning anxiety on the faces of several gentlemen, all sitting in a row. They might be the town councillors, he thought. "Of course," he continued, "there are sometimes considerations that make it impossible for the councillors to follow their natural inclinations in the matter,

and grant every request made of them. Sometimes even, I speak as a practical politician, they are not even able to disclose the principles of policy that dictate their decisions. But should such considerations not exist in this case, I wish to say that I give the idea my most emphatic indorsement."

It would be difficult to say whether Miss Jones or the councillors clapped harder after this indorsement.

"And now, ladies and gentlemen," he said in conclusion, "do you know what impresses me most about this wonderful city of yours?" He repeated the words again for emphasis.

The audience hung breathlessly on his words.

"That this city has ahead of it a great future."

During his tenth bow to the applause, a little boy came running up to the platform with a bunch of posies, which he presented to the visitor.

The great man patted the boy on the head, asked kindly after his mother and father, and read the card attached, which he hastily put in his pocket.

It said: "Compliments of the councillors."

Through the crowd that was coming onto the platform to congratulate him, he sought out Miss Jones.

"Oh, what pretty flowers!" "They are for you," he said graciously, giving her the bunch.

"And now," said Mrs. Hopkins, looking at her watch, "if you don't want to miss your train you must say your farewells."

The visitor said that he could not afford to miss his train, so he would "waive" his farewells. Great men have been known to linger in a company almost indefinitely waiting for an opportunity to make just such a witty exit.

In a few minutes more the original little party was back at the station. On the platform they found a tall youth, who said he was the reporter for The Courier.

By some higher faculty not possessed by humbler men, the great man knew this already. So he waited until the reporter had opened his note-book and poised his pencil, and then remarked, turning his back on the youth, as if he had completely

forgotten him: "I am carrying away with me a singularly pleasant recollection of the charming people of your city." Miss Jones blushed prettily. "You will come back some time," Mrs. Hopkins asked.

"Some time, ah, yes!"

Miss Jones looked at him anxiously. "Perhaps to dedicate the playground?" "Yes," he agreed gravely.

She became bolder. "Will you promise?"

There flashed into his mind the picture of several fat councillors frowning at the word "playground!"

"Yes; ah, yes, I promise."

She looked at him gratefully. For a

moment their eyes met, and for her, in that fleeting encounter, was a long eternity.

"All aboard!"

The little group watched the great man framed in the doorway of the last car until the train was quite lost around the bend. Then Miss Jones turned aside and hid somewhere in the folds of her dress, one of the flowers from her little bunch of posies.

Mrs. Hopkins folded the programme carefully in the middle, took off her glasses, snapped them in the case, and turned to her elbow.

"Henry, I want to talk to you!" Henry was nowhere in sight.

I

T was Monday, July 5, 1920, when "Lightnin' was ending its second year on Broadway, that I took my letter of introduction in one hand and my courage in both hands, and went down to the Gaiety Theatre to present myself to Frank Bacon.

I knew that famous stars were not easy to approach, and I feared that I would be told Mr. Bacon was too busy or too tired, or too something or other, to see me.

"Lightnin's" first act was not quite over when I reached the stage door. At the end of the act the doorman waylaid Mr. Bacon as he left the stage and handed him the letter and my card. Mr. Bacon squinted in my direction and told me to follow him. We went into his dressingroom, and Mr. Bacon nodded toward a chair, and then he sank into an enormous black-leather one beside the make-up shelf. I sat down without a word while Mr. Bacon put on his glasses and opened the letter.

He read it through and sat gazing at the floor, thinking. The letter simply asked him to do what he could for me, and he, of course, surmised that it was the same old story-I wanted to go on the stage and had come to him for help and advice. After he had glanced through the letter once more, he smiled at me across the room, and, fixing me with that steady gaze of his, he said: "Well, I suppose you want to act."

"Yes," I replied, "but that's only half of what I want. I want to be your secretary, too." Mr. Bacon sat up a little at that and cocked his head to one side and raised his bushy eyebrows.

"That isn't a bad idea," he said. "I really ought to have some one to help me

with my mail. I read the letters and put them aside. I pick up a few from time to time and answer them, but most of them are left so long that they get cold, and there's nothing to do but put them in the scrap-basket. It isn't fair; it hurts people's feelings. I really should answer every one of them. I tell you what; come in and see me again in a few dayssay, after Wednesday's matinée. I haven't time to talk about it now. It's almost time to go on again."

The following Wednesday I sent my card in to Mr. Bacon after the matinée. He called down the long hall which led from his dressing-room, "Come on down," and then when I reached his room he said: "You know, I never thought of you once after you left the other day. Come in after the matinée Saturday and I'll bring some letters from home and we'll go over them."

I went the next Saturday, but again I was told, in that gentle Frank Bacon voice, and with an apologetic smile, that I had passed out of his mind the moment I had passed out of his dressing-room the Wednesday before. So at his invitation I paid him regular Saturday and Wednesday visits until August 1st arrived. That day I went down during the evening performance. In one of his moments off stage Mr. Bacon saw me waiting and beckoned to me.

I started to go to him, but the doorman stopped me, saying that no one but the performers could stand in the wings during a performance. I explained that Mr. Bacon had beckoned to me. "Oh, that's all right then"-and I had the thrill of walking right up to the "Calivada" dining-room door (back-stage side).

Mr. Bacon was beaming with self-approval as he said: "Aren't I bright? I remembered to bring the letters!' Then