e fallen upon one of the summer hotels and irreparably damaged
the roof."

Mr. Munchausen laughed.

"It is curious, Ananias," said he, "what sticklers for the truth you
and I have become."

"It is indeed, Munchausen," I returned. "The effects of this climate
are working wonders upon us. And it is just as well. You and I are
outclassed by these twentieth century prevaricators concerning whom
late arrivals from the upper world tell such strange things. They tell
me that lying has become a business and is no longer ranked among the
Arts or Professions."

"Ah me!" sighed the Baron with a retrospective look in his eye, "lying
isn't what it used to be, Ananias, in your days and mine. I fear it
has become one of the lost arts."

"I have noticed it myself, my friend, and only last night I observed
the same thing to my well beloved Sapphira, who was lamenting the
transparency of the modern lie, and said that lying to-day is no
better than the truth. In our day a prevarication had all of the
opaque beauty of an opalescent bit of glass, whereas to-day in the
majority of cases it is like a great vulgar plate-glass window,
through which we can plainly see the ugly truths that lie behind. But,
sir, I am here to secure from you not a treatise upon the lost art of
lying, but some idea of the results of your sporting tour. You fished,
and hunted, and golfed, and doubtless did other things. You, of
course, had luck and made the greatest catch of the season; shot all
the game in sight, and won every silver, gold and pewter golf mug in
all creation?"

"You speak truly, Ananias," returned Mr. Munchausen. "My luck _was_
wonderful--even for one who has been so singularly fortunate as I. I
took three tons of speckled beauties with one cast of an ordinary
horse whip in the Blue Hills, and with nothing but a silken line and a
minnow hook landed upon the deck of my steam yacht a whale of most
tremendous proportions; I shot game of every kind in great abundance
and in my golf there was none to whom I could not give with ease seven
holes in every nine and beat him out."

"Seven?" said I, failing to see how the ex-Baron could be right.

"Seven," said he complacently. "Seven on the first, and seven on the
second nine; fourteen in all of the eighteen holes."

"But," I cried, "I do not see how that could be. With fourteen holes
out of the eighteen given to your opponent even if you won all the
rest you still would be ten down."

"True, by