et you, Mr. Furniss. When you come over to the States we must
put you on the grill!"

What did he mean? I looked at Max. Max turned pale, and seemed for a
moment to lose his self-possession, then hurriedly whispered in my ear:

"Jolly good fellow--very witty--president of strange club in America
where they chaff their guests--see my last book!"

I recollected reading about a club that goes in for roasting as well as
toasting its guests, and replied:

"Strange!" I said. "I always thought the Americans were in advance of
the English; yet here in my country we do not put the Furniss on the
grill, but the grill on the furnace!"

Max laughed and looked relieved, and said:

"You'll do--they'll let you off easy. A Frenchman can't stand chaff, so
I sat down."

He had stood the fire of the enemy upon the field of battle, but he
couldn't stand the fusillade of wit from the Americans at their dinner
table.

The stranger was no other than Major Moses P. Handy, afterwards "Chief
of Department of Publicity and Promotion at the World's Columbian
Exposition, Chicago;" so when I found myself in the "Windy City" as an
unattached "special" from the Old World to the New "World's Fair," I
called at Rand-McNally Buildings, not to be put on the grill, but to be
put in possession of some facts concerning that great "Exposition."

[Illustration: MAJOR HANDY.]

Sometimes there is a great deal in a name. For instance, the late Major
Handy at once indicated the man--handy, always ready with tongue, hands
and legs. He handed me round the city, told me of its wonders, and sent
me off enraptured to the "Exposition." Here I was met by one of the
staff, and escorted all over the skeleton of what eventually proved to
be the most wonderful "Exposition," Exhibition, World's Fair, or
whatever you like to call it, that the New World had ever seen.

The gentleman in possession who met me and acted as my guide was a
clean-cut featured, smooth-faced, typical American, "full of wise saws
and modern instances" and--tobacco juice. He had a merry wit, and his
running commentary would have been invaluable "copy" to America's pet
humourist, Bill Nye.

I had a pencil in the pocket in one side of my coat, and a note-book in
the pocket in the other side, but the carriage in which I was driven
about rushed on so over the rough ground and "corduroy roads" and hills
and chasms, that I found it a matter of utter impossibility to get the
pencil and the book o