mpany. He's a right decent chap when you know
how to handle him. I want to get them to finance a big apartment house
scheme. I've got an idea for a flat that will make the town sit up and
gasp."

"Don't linger on my account, Jack. I only stopped in to see whether you
kept your good spirits. I feel as though I'd had a shower bath. Come
along."

Several men were waiting to see Balcomb in the outer office and he shook
hands with all of them and begged them to come again, taking care to
mention that he had been called to the Central States Trust Company and
had to hurry away.

He called peremptorily to the passing elevator-car to wait, and as he
and Leighton squeezed into it, he continued his half of an imaginary
conversation in a tone that was audible to every passenger.

"I could have had those bonds, if I had wanted them; but I knew there
was a cloud on them--the county was already over its legal limit. I
guess those St. Louis fellows will be sorry they were so
enterprising--here we are!"

And then in a lower tone to Leighton: "That was for old man Dameron's
benefit. Did you see him jammed back in the corner of the car? Queer old
party and as tight as a drum. When I can work off some assessable and
non-interest bearing bonds on him, it'll be easy to sell Uncle Sam's
Treasury a gold brick. They say the old man has a daughter who is finer
than gold; yea, than much fine gold. I'm going to look her up, if I ever
get time. You'd better come over soon and pick out an office. _Verbum
sat sapienti_, as our loving teacher used to say. So long!"

Leighton walked back to his office in good humor and better contented
with his own lot.

THE WICKED ZEBRA[3]

BY FRANK ROE BATCHELDER

The zebra always seems malicious,--
He kicks and bites 'most all the time;
I fear that he's not only vicious,
But guilty of some dreadful crime.

The mere suggestion makes me falter
In writing of this wicked brute;
Although he has escaped the halter,
He wears for life a convict's suit.

[Footnote 3: Lippincott's Magazine.]

THE BRAKEMAN AT CHURCH

BY ROBERT J. BURDETTE

One bright winter morning, the twenty-ninth day of December, Anno Domini
1879, I was journeying from Lebanon, Indiana, where I had sojourned
Sunday, to Indianapolis. I did not see the famous cedars, and I supposed
they had been used up for lead-pencils, and moth-proof chests, and
relics, and souvenirs; for Lebanon