tions of grotesque quackeries;
appeals, business-like, absurd, or even passionate, in the form of
"Wants;" threats thinly disguised as "Personals;"' dim suggestions of
crime, of fraud, of hope, of tragedy, of mania, all decorated with
the stars of "paid matter" or designated by the Adv. sign, and each
representing some case brought to A. Jones, Ad-Visor--to quote his
hybrid and expressive doorplate--by some one of his numerous and
incongruous clients.

"Something different?" repeated the visitor, reverting to Average Jones'
last observation. "Well, yes; I think so. Where is Bellair Street?"

"Ask a directory. How should I know?" retorted the other lazily. "Sounds
like old Greenwich Village."

Bertram reached over with a cane of some pale, translucent green wood,
selected to match his pale green tie and the marvelous green opal
which held it in place, and prodded his friend severely in the ribs.
"Double-up Lucy; the sun is in the sky!" he proclaimed with unwonted
energy. "Listen. I cut this out of yesterday's Evening Register. With
my own fair hands I did it, to rouse you from your shameless sloth. With
your kind attention, ladies and gentlemen--" He read:

"WANTED--A young man, unattached,
competent to act as assistant in
outdoor scientific work. Manual
skill as desirable as experience.
Emolument for one month's work generous.
Man without family insisted upon.
Apply after 8:30 P. M. in proper person.
Smith, 74 Bellair Street."

Slowly whirling in his chair, Average Jones held out a hand, received
the clipping, read it through with attention, laid it on the desk, and
yawned.

"Is that all?" said the indignant Bertram. "Do you notice that
'unattached' in the opening sentence? And the specification that the
applicant must be without family? Doesn't that inspire any notion above
a yawn in your palsied processes of mind?"

"It does; several notions. I yawned," explained Average Jones with
dignity, "because I perceive with pain that I shall have to go to work.
What do you make of the thing, yourself?"

"Well, this man Smith--"

"What man Smith?"

"Smith, of 74 Bellair Street, who signs the ad."

Average Jones laughed, "There isn't any Smith," he said.

"What do you know about it?" demanded Bertram, sitting up.

"Only what the advertisement tells me. It was written by a foreigner;
that's too obvious for argument. 'Emolument generous.' 'Apply in proper
person.' Did a