oodwill and
happiness.

"Poor old Edward Overjoy!" he said, as the motor moved
out of sight.

"What's wrong with him?" I asked.

"Hadn't you heard?" said my friend. "He's ruined--absolutely
cleaned out--not a cent left."

"Dear me!" I said. "That's awfully hard. I suppose he'll
have to sell that beautiful motor?"

My friend shook his head.

"Oh, no," he said. "He'll hardly do that. I don't think
his wife would care to sell that."

My friend was right. The Overjoys have not sold their
motor. Neither have they sold their magnificent sandstone
residence. They are too much attached to it, I believe,
to sell it. Some people thought they would have given up
their box at the opera. But it appears not. They are too
musical to care to do that. Meantime it is a matter of
general notoriety that the Overjoys are absolutely ruined;
in fact, they haven't a single cent. You could buy
Overjoy--so I am informed--for ten dollars.

But I observe that he still wears a seal-lined coat worth
at least five hundred.

XVII. Humour as I See It

It is only fair that at the back of this book I should
be allowed a few pages to myself to put down some things
that I really think.

Until two weeks ago I might have taken my pen in hand to
write about humour with the confident air of an acknowledged
professional.

But that time is past. Such claim as I had has been taken
from me. In fact I stand unmasked. An English reviewer
writing in a literary journal, the very name of which is
enough to put contradiction to sleep, has said of my
writing, "What is there, after all, in Professor Leacock's
humour but a rather ingenious mixture of hyperbole and
myosis?"

The man was right. How he stumbled upon this trade secret
I do not know. But I am willing to admit, since the truth
is out, that it has long been my custom in preparing an
article of a humorous nature to go down to the cellar
and mix up half a gallon of myosis with a pint of hyperbole.
If I want to give the article a decidedly literary
character, I find it well to put in about half a pint of
paresis. The whole thing is amazingly simple.

But I only mention this by way of introduction and to
dispel any idea that I am conceited enough to write about
humour, with the professional authority of Ella Wheeler
Wilcox writing about love, or Eva Tanguay talking about
dancing.

All that I dare claim is that I have as much sense of
humour as other people. And, oddly enough, I noti