better now, Mamma?" he asked anxiously.--_C. Hilton
Turvey_.

DESTINATION

A Washington car conductor, born in London and still a cockney, has
succeeded in extracting thrills from the alphabet--imparting excitement
to the names of the national capitol's streets. On a recent Sunday
morning he was calling the streets thus:

"Haitch!"

"High!"

"Jay!"

"Kay!"

"Hell!"

At this point three prim ladies picked up their prayer-books and left
the car.--_Lippincott's Magazine_.

Andrew Lang once invited a friend to dinner when he was staying in
Marlowe's road, Earl's Court, a street away at the end of that long
Cromwell road, which seems to go on forever. The guest was not very
sure how to get there, so Lang explained:

"Walk right' along Cromwell road," he said, "till you drop dead and my
house is just opposite!"

DETAILS

Charles Frohman was talking to a Philadelphia reporter about the
importance of detail.

"Those who work for me," he said, "follow my directions down to the very
smallest item. To go wrong in detail, you know, is often to go
altogether wrong--like the dissipated husband.

"A dissipated husband as he stood before his house in the small hours
searching for his latchkey, muttered to himself:

"'Now which did my wife say--hic--have two whishkies an' get home by 12,
or--hic--have twelve whishkies an' get home by 2?'"

DETECTIVES

When Conan Doyle arrived for the first time in Boston he was instantly
recognized by the cabman whose vehicle he had engaged. When the great
literary man offered to pay his fare the cabman said quite respectfully:

"If you please, sir, I should much prefer a ticket to your lecture. If
you should have none with you a visiting-card penciled by yourself would
do."

Conan Doyle laughed.

"Tell me," he said, "how did you know who I was, and I will give you
tickets for your whole family."

"Thank you sir," was the reply. "Why, we all knew--that is, all the
members of the Cabmen's Literary Guild knew--that you were coming by
this train. I happen to be the only member on duty at the station this
morning. If you will excuse personal remarks your coat lapels are badly
twisted downward where they have been grasped by the pertinacious New
York reporters. Your hair has the Quakerish cut of a Philadelphia
barber, and your hat, battered at the brim in front, shows where you
have tightly grasped it in the struggle to stand your ground at a
Chicago