"Perhaps you remember the jewels well enough to get a photograph from memory?" he suggested.

   A smile chased itself over the face of Mrs. Shinevonboodle, and she picked herself up from the geraniums.

   "I remember them perfectly," she whispered, "because when my husband got the bill for them he had four different styles of fits in four minutes. Three of these fits were entirely new and original with him, so I remember the jewels perfectly."

   "Good!" said the policeman. "I will have 18 detectives and 219 reporters up here in ten minutes. Calm yourself, now, calm yourself, because what is lost will soon be found in the newspapers."

   The policeman rushed away to the telephone, and with a glad cry of thanksgiving Mrs. Shinevonboodle ran in the house and began to beat Mozart out of the piano.

   That's all the Society news I have at present, John.

   Yours as per usual,

   BUNCH.

   I pulled a wheeze on Bunch Jefferson a few weeks ago that made him sit up and scream for help.

   Bunch is the Original Ace all right, all right, but it does put dust on his dignity to have anybody josh his literary attainments.

   Bunch can really sling a nasty little pen, but he isn't anybody's John W. Milton.

   Not at all.

   He can take a bunch of the English language and flatten it out around the edges till it looks quite poetic, but that doesn't make him a George O. Khayaam.

   Not at all.

   The trouble with Bunch is that his home folks have swelled his chest to such an extent by petting his adjectives that he thinks he has Shakespeare on a hot skiddoo for the sand dunes, and when it comes to that poetry thing he thinks he can make Hank Longfellow beat it up a tree.

   Bunch lives out in Westchester County in one of those hand-painted suburbs where everybody knows everybody else's business and forgets his own.

   Bunch and Alice joined the local club, of course, and when Bunch read some of his poetical outbursts at a 

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