him?" gasped Mrs. Shinevonboodle, with a shudder.

"The photographer generally takes things," answered the policeman.
"Otherwise, how could the pictures get in the newspapers?"

"Heaven forgive me for this oversight, but my photographer neglected to
take the jewels before I lost them," said Mrs. Shinevonboodle, with
bitter tears in her lamps.

The policeman turned away to conceal his emotion and to take a pull at
his two-for cigar.

"What, oh! what is to be done?" wailed the helpless woman.

"Nothing," responded the policeman, after a miserable pause. "Without
pictures of the jewels to put in the newspapers the sensation will be
weak and will wobble at the knees."

Mrs. Shinevonboodle leaned against the fence and groaned inwardly.

"It is too bad," muttered the policeman, as he bit into the two-for
cigar and walked silently away.

Mrs. Shinevonboodle sat down in her most expensive flower bed and wept
bitterly.

Just then the policeman came running back.

"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.

CHAPTER VII

JOHN HENRY ON CHAFING DISHES

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.