“Good. Here’s my visiting card. Now go down to the cellar, open twenty-four clams, put ’em on some cracked ice, and while you’re doing it, mention my name to every damn’ one of ’em.” § 262 Out of Business Hours To realize what the antiquity of this one is you first must look up the date of General Tom Thumb’s death and then hark still farther back to the yet more remote period when that little man was at the height of his fame. Under the management of P. T. Barnum, the most famous of all our dwarfs was touring the country. Between engagements he stopped over Sunday at a country hotel in New England. A lady of the neighborhood called and sent up her card with the request that she be permitted to meet the General. The message was received by a member of Barnum’s staff, who happened at the moment to be in the General’s room. This person, who was six feet tall and broad in proportion, and also something of a wit, asked that the lady be shown up. Presently she knocked at the door and he answered it. “I am looking,” she said, “for General Tom Thumb.” “Madam,” he said, “proceed to look.” “Surely you are not the celebrated midget?” she cried. “Certainly I am,” he answered. “But just at the present moment, Madam, I happen to be resting.” § 263 In the Ascending Scale A person who had been so incautious as to sample a bootlegger’s wares was endeavoring to negotiate the opening into a hat store. Another man, who was perfectly sober and apparently had no sympathy with any persons who also were not perfectly sober, shoved the inebriated one aside and entered the establishment. The jostled person, straightening himself with difficulty, followed through the door. Just inside a salesman bowed before the sober man. “I want a hat,” said the latter. “A derby hat. Size 6-7/8.” Having found a hat to his liking he departed. The clerk turned to the soused individual, who, while the sale was in progress, had been regarding the first purchaser with a baleful eye. “And what can I do for you, sir?” inquired the clerk. “I want a lid, too.” “Yes sir. What size?” “Whasch size ’at other feller take?” “6-7/8.” “Alri’—then gimme 9-10-11!” § 264 A Family of Imitators In the old days there was an ex-miner who opened a hotel in Reno, Nevada. Alongside the clerk’s desk he installed a cigar-stand and stocked it. One day a traveling man, who had sold him his original supply and who was in the habit of serving him, dropped in and inquired whether there was anything in his line that the proprietor desired to-day. “Sure, pard,” said the ex-miner. “You kin ship me another thousand of them Madero cigars. You needn’t send me any more of them punks made by Colorado Madero. And say, who in thunder is this young Clara Madero who’s busted into the cigar business and is tryin’ to git away with it by tradin’ on the family name? “Me for old man Madero—to hell with his relatives!”