you like a goot seegar?" queried Sledgeheimer. We looked for the engine to hit a cow any minute now. "Sure!" said Slim, weak all over. "Vell," said Sledgeheimer, "here is my brudder-in-law's card. He makes dot Grass Vidow seegar on Sigsth Afenue. Gif him a call und mention my name. He vill be glat to see you, yet." Then Sledgeheimer went away back and sat down. The laugh was on Slim so he got busy with the button. JOHN HENRY IN BOHEMIA. Boys! let me put you wise! If you want to keep off the griddle don't ever try to show your shy little lady friend how the birdies sing in "Bohemia." You'll get stung if you do. For the past six months Clara Jane has been handing out hints that she'd like to have me take her down the line and let her Oh, listen to the band! in one of those real devilish New York restaurants. She intimated that she'd like to sit in the grand stand and hold the watch on those who are going the pace that kills. She wanted to know if I thought she could toy with a tenderloin steak in a careless café without getting the call down from Uncle William. Clara Jane's Uncle William hands out the lesson leaflets in Sunday school and wrestles the Golden Rule to a finish every Sabbath. During the week he conducts a fire sale. I told her I thought she could and she was pleased. "I'm just crazy to take lunch, sometime, among the Bohemians!" she gurgled. I told her I though she'd have a happier time if we tramped down to the tunnel and butted in among the Italians just as the twelve o'clock whistle blew, and she threw both lamps at me good and hard. Clara Jane spent the summer once at Sag Harbor and she's been a subscriber for The Young Ladies' Home Companion, but outside of these her young life has been devoid of excitement. A few days ago I took her to the matinee at The New York where you have to pinch off only 50 cents and then you're entitled to slosh around in parlor furniture and eat up about $8 worth of comedy. That "New York" thing is immense--believe me! Everything else has faded away. After the show we thought we'd pat the pave for a few blocks and who should we run into but Bud Phillips. Bud belongs to the Grand Lodge of Good Fellows. So far as I can size him up the Good Fellow puts in twelve hours a day trying to stab himself to death with gin rickeys, and the other twelve are devoted to yelling for help and ice-water. This is not a tap on the door. Nix on the knock. It isn't my cue to aim the hammer. When it comes to falling off the water wagon I can do a bit of a specialty in grand and lofty tumbling that gets a loud hand from all the members of the High Tide Association. So nix on the knock. His father cut out the breathing business about two years ago and left Bud $100,000 and a long dry spell on the inside. Bud has been in the lake 

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