I'll leave
the second act to you. When you collaborate, Mr. Poet, you've got to do
a little collabbing on your own account. What did you think you were to
do--collect the royalties?"
"I'm told," said the Lawyer, "that that is sometimes the hardest thing
to do in a comic opera."
"Well, I'll be self-sacrificing," said the Idiot, "and bear my full
share of it."
"It seems to me," said the Bibliomaniac, "that that opera produced in
the right place might stand a chance of a run."
"Thank you," said the Idiot. "After all, Mr. Bib, you are a man of some
penetration. How long a run?"
"One consecutive night," said the Bibliomaniac.
"Ah--and where?" demanded the Idiot with a smile.
"At Bloomingdale," answered the Bibliomaniac severely.
"That's a very good idea," said the Idiot. "When you go back there, Mr.
Bib, I wish you'd suggest it to the Superintendent."
WAMSLEY'S AUTOMATIC PASTOR
BY FRANK CRANE
"Yes, sir," said the short, chunky man, as he leaned back against the
gorgeous upholstery of his seat in the smoking compartment of the
sleeping-car; "yes, sir, I knew you was a preacher the minute I laid
eyes on you. You don't wear your collar buttoned behind, nor a black
thingumbob over your shirt front, nor Presbyterian whiskers, nor a
little gold cross on a black string watch chain; them's the usual marks,
I know, and you hain't got any of 'em.
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