“To tell you de truth, Sista’, we ain’t quite got ’round to dat part yit,” confessed the orator. “Dey’s been so much else to do. But in due time we aims to ’range ’bout de sick benefits an’ de buryin’ fund an’ all dat.” “Br’er Sawyer, bresh by,” commanded the sagacious Aunt Cilly. “Yo’ new lodge done lose its taste fur me already. I ’members whut happen’ to dat shiftless flight-haided Fanny Meriwether whut lived jest a little piece up dis same street. Yere two years ago she took an’ up an’ j’ined one of dese yere new-fangled lodges w’ich a strange nigger got up in dis town, same ez whut you’s aimin’ to do now. An’ dat lodge didn’t specify ’bout no buryin’ money, neither. Well, Fanny Meriwether hauled off one day an’ died widout ary cent of money laid by fur to fune’lize her. An’ whut wuz de upshot? W’y, she laid ’round de house daid fur goin’ on three days an’ den dat pore gal had to git to de cemetery de best way she could.” § 319 Who’s Who in Newark Back in those old sinful wet days, two gentlemen, both far overtaken in alcoholic stimulant, were seen under a lamp-post on a street corner in Newark, clinging to each other for support. As a spectator passed them he overheard the following dialogue carried on in somewhat fuzzy accents: Said Souse Number One: “Do you know Bill Talbot?” Said Souse Number Two after a moment of reflection: “No; whuzziz name?” Said Souse Number One: “Who?” § 320 Hives, Perhaps, But No Honey On their bridal tour the young couple went, as many young couples do on their bridal tours, to Washington. They stopped at one of the larger hotels. For two days they did the usual sight-seeing stunts. They visited the Capitol and the White House and they crossed over to Arlington and they ascended the Monument. Early on the morning of the third day the husband remained in the room to write some letters. The bride ran out to do a little shopping. Half an hour later she returned. She had left the elevator at her floor and was passing through the long hallway when she discovered that she had forgotten her own room number. She was sure, though, she knew which was the right door, but, when she turned the knob and tried to enter, she found it locked. She rapped on the panel. “Let me in, honey,” she said. “I’m back.” There was no reply. She rapped again. “Honey, oh, honey!” she called, “I want to get in.” From the other side of the door came the voice of a strange man—a dignified and an austere voice: “Madam, this is not a beehive; it is a bathroom.” § 321 A Mystery Revealed