There is an actor in New York who is distinguished among other qualities for his frugality. There have been other frugal actors from time to time, but probably none quite so much so as this gentleman is. His passion for personal economy has come to be proverbial. Let us for convenience call him Jones, which isn’t his name at all. One day in the early part of December of last year a gentleman of a waggish turn of mind came, with a look of concern on his face, into the Lambs Club. He approached a card table where four brother members were playing bridge. “Did you hear about the accident to Jones?” he asked. “No,” they chorused. “What was it?” “Well, it just happened over on the East Side. While Jones was doing his Christmas shopping he got crushed between two push-carts.” § 310 And Getting Worse All the Time The transcontinental flier had pulled out from Chicago for the long run to the Coast and the conductor had made his rounds, when the passengers in one of the coaches became aware of signs of concern on the part of a fellow traveler. This was an elderly bearded man in old-fashioned garb and of fatherly aspect. He sat with his head in his hands muttering to himself in Yiddish and at intervals uttering low moaning sounds. They sympathized with his grief and among themselves wondered what ailed him. The common theory was that the poor old fellow must be on his way across country, hoping to reach the bedside of some dear one who was in sore affliction. Or, possibly, he was going west to attend a funeral. Next morning, as the train entered Kansas, his grief seemed greater even than it had been the night before. He groaned almost continuously, beating himself gently on the breast and at intervals exclaiming: “Oi! Oi!” This continued all through that day and the day following. The patriarch seemed so alone in his sorrow; so completely desolated. Kindly eyes regarded him and all on the train wished they might do something to soothe him and comfort him. But he was a stranger and, after all, there wasn’t anything really they could do; besides, they felt it was not proper that they, who never before had seen him, should intrude upon his distress. Finally, though, on the next afternoon when they were crossing Southern California and were within a few score miles of Los Angeles, one big-hearted man could contain himself no longer. He approached the seat where the old man sat in a huddle of misery and extending a cordial hand, he said: “Sir, I do not know you. I do not wish you to think that I am inquisitive, but I have been sorely moved by your grief and perhaps now that we are approaching our destination I can be of some small assistance to you. Is there anything I can do?” Tears gushed from the old man’s eyes as mutely he shook his head. “I’m so sorry. Pardon me for asking, but have you suffered a personal bereavement?” The ancient shook his head in the negative. “Is it worse than that even?” A nod.