oy without any clothes on shooting arrows around with a bow, did you?"

"Why, no," said Kelly, mystified. "I didn't. If he was like you say,
maybe the cops pinched him before I got there."

"I thought the little rascal wouldn't be on hand," chuckled Anthony.
"Good-by, Kelly."

SPRINGTIME A LA CARTE

It was a day in March.

Never, never begin a story this way when you write one. No opening could
possibly be worse. It is unimaginative, flat, dry and likely to consist
of mere wind. But in this instance it is allowable. For the following
paragraph, which should have inaugurated the narrative, is too wildly
extravagant and preposterous to be flaunted in the face of the reader
without preparation.

Sarah was crying over her bill of fare.

Think of a New York girl shedding tears on the menu card!

To account for this you will be allowed to guess that the lobsters were
all out, or that she had sworn ice-cream off during Lent, or that she
had ordered onions, or that she had just come from a Hackett matinee.
And then, all these theories being wrong, you will please let the story
proceed.

The gentleman who announced that the world was an oyster which he with
his sword would open made a larger hit than he deserved. It is not
difficult to open an oyster with a sword. But did you ever notice any
one try to open the terrestrial bivalve with a typewriter? Like to wait
for a dozen raw opened that way?

Sarah had managed to pry apart the shells with her unhandy weapon far
enough to nibble a wee bit at the cold and clammy world within. She knew
no more shorthand than if she had been a graduate in stenography just
let slip upon the world by a business college. So, not being able to
stenog, she could not enter that bright galaxy of office talent. She was
a free-lance typewriter and canvassed for odd jobs of copying.

The most brilliant and crowning feat of Sarah's battle with the world
was the deal she made with Schulenberg's Home Restaurant. The restaurant
was next door to the old red brick in which she ball-roomed. One
evening after dining at Schulenberg's 40-cent, five-course _table
d'hote_ (served as fast as you throw the five baseballs at the coloured
gentleman's head) Sarah took away with her the bill of fare. It was
written in an almost unreadable script neither English nor German, and
so arranged that if you were not careful you began with a toothpick and
rice pudding and ended with soup and the day of the we