But one Sunday as he entered the pulpit, he suffered a distressing shock. Sitting in a front pew was a black man he instantly recognized as a former cell-mate in the penitentiary. That wasn’t the worst of it. He could tell by the expression on the other’s face that the latter also had recognized him. He had a feeling either that he must submit to blackmail or suffer exposure and lose his present charge. The distracted parson did some quick thinking. Then he opened the Good Book, fixed his eyes meaningly upon the countenance of the interloper, cleared his throat and began as follows: “Brethren an’ Sistren. I had figgered to disco’se to you-all dis Sabbath mawnin’ ’pun de subjec’ of de parable of de Prodigal Son; but sence steppin’ into dis holy place I has changed my mind an’ I shall preach frum de fo’teenth Chapter of Ezekiel, nineteenth Verse, w’ich sez: ‘Ef thou seest me an’ thinkest thou knowest me, don’t say nothin’, fur verily I say unto you, I’ll see you later.’” § 329 The Real Fromage, in Fact Two of Broadway’s typical products were invited to spend an evening at the Fifth Avenue home of a wealthy patron. The guests knew a great deal about musical shows and about picking winners at the tracks and, when it came to rolling a sucker for his money, they acknowledged no superiors. But in certain other departments of knowledge both of them were just a trifle shy. Observing that they seemed somewhat self-conscious, their host undertook to make them feel more at home. He made the mistake, though, of picking on literature as a topic. Across the dinner-table he said to one of them: “How do you like Omar Khayyam?” “Oh, pretty good,” said the person addressed; “but a bottle of this here red Chianti suits me better.” On the way home the second Broadwayite took his friend to task for his ignorance. “Bo,” he said, “when you don’t understand a thing why don’t you keep your mouth shut? Why, you big stiff, this here Omar Khayyam ain’t no wine. It’s a cheese.” § 330 Practically No Reason for It There once was a clerk of the hotel in a small Maine town who had a unique way of keeping a diary. Each evening he wrote on the bottom lines of the page of the register for the current date a brief account of the principal daily doings in the community, usually coupled with a summary of his own personal reactions to them. Sometimes his phraseology was unusual but always it was amply descriptive. A friend of mine was stopping at the hotel, having gone up to Maine on a fishing trip. He fell into the habit of glancing through the back pages of the register, more for the enjoyment he got from the quaint language of the entries than because he was interested in bygone neighborhood history. On succeeding pages of the book for a week of the early spring of the year previous, he found these progressive records of a local tragedy: