“Suttinly I wants gas,” she answered. “Does you think I crave to have a strange man foolin’ ’round me in de dark?” § 307 A Little Bed Time Tale If you have for a friend a clergyman who is slightly deaf, it is proper to tell this story on him, adding that you were present when it happened. As a matter of fact, it has been attributed to every distinguished churchman in this country who is hard of hearing. However, it goes better, I think, when you make the central character a bishop—by preference a very dignified bishop—who is attending a dinner-party. Seated next to him, on his deafer side, is a young lady who, being naturally diffident, is now deeply awed by her proximity to so famous a man. She hesitates to address him, preferring to wait for what she regards as a favorable opportunity; yet she craves conversation with him. Toward the end of the meal, fruit is passed about. The nervous guest seizes on this for her cue. Gently she joggles her great neighbor’s elbow. “I beg your pardon, sir,” she says, “but are you fond of bananas?” His Reverence inclines a stately head in her direction, at the same time cupping his hand behind his ear. “What did you say?” he asks. Blushing, the young woman raises her voice: “It’s really of no consequence,” she says; “I merely asked you whether you liked bananas.” By now, all the others at the table are listening. The bishop considers for a moment and then replies: “Well, my dear, if you wish my honest opinion, I have always preferred the old-fashioned night-shirt.” § 308 A Growing Suspicion For years Mrs. Grauman, wife of the wealthy retired shirt-waist manufacturer, had been ailing. Or anyhow, she thought she was ailing. She tried one specialist after another, patronized a succession of sanitariums, took the cure here, there and elsewhere. Yet nothing seemed to help her. She remained a chronic complainer. The husband’s patience sorely was tested. Also there was a constant drain upon his checkbook. Mr. Grauman didn’t so much mind the latter. Always he had been a generous provider for his family. What secretly irked him was a conviction that the lady’s trouble was more or less imaginary; an unspoken but none-the-less sincere belief that his money was being spent to gratify a neurotic whim. Had Mr. Grauman known the words “malingerer” and “hypochondriac” these undoubtedly were the words he would have applied in his own private diagnosis of the case. Nevertheless, the invalid, after long months of treatment, succumbed to her mysterious malady. She became no more. On the night before the funeral the mourning widower sat alone by the bier. For long hours he communed with himself. Finally he reached forth a caressing hand and softly patted the casket. “Vell,” he said, “maybe Mommer _vas_ sick!” § 309 Caught in the Jam