At the proper moment the pleased promoter in his rôle of master of ceremonies, came forth upon the improvised stage and announced that he had a delightful surprise and a wonderful treat for the audience. Prof. Bilbus, a famous clarinet player direct from New York city and at present sojourning temporarily in their midst, would now favor the assembled citizens with a solo. He stepped to one side and from the wings issued the visitor, who bowed low, and then, lifting his instrument to his lips, emitted one of the sourest and most dismal of notes. In his shock and disappointment a big miner at the back of the house forgot the proprieties. “Well, the blanketty blank!” he exclaimed in a voice which reached beyond the footlights. Quivering with indignation the introducer sprang forward again to the centre. “Wait!” he called out. “Who called the clarinet player a blanketty blank?” From the audience a third voice was lifted: “Who called the blanketty blank a clarinet player?” § 51 Poor Aim but Good Intent After his retirement from the presidency Colonel Roosevelt was making one of his periodical trips through the Southwest, when word came to him in a town in New Mexico that one of his old Rough Riders, a cow hand, was in jail on a serious charge over in Arizona and craved that his beloved commander would come to see him and, if possible, aid him in his present troubles. Promptly the Colonel crossed the line. In a small brick coop of a county prison he found the veteran. When greetings had been exchanged through the bars, Col. Roosevelt said: “Jim, I’m certainly sorry to see you in this place.” “Kernel,” stated the captive, “I’m sorry ’bout it myself. And I’m hopin’ you kin use your influence to git me out pronto. They really ain’t got no right to keep me locked up. My bein’ here is all due to a mistake anyway.” “A mistake?” echoed the Colonel. “Why, I understood you were charged with some serious offence—shooting somebody, wasn’t it?” “Well,” said the prisoner, “it’s true I did shoot a lady in the eye. But it was an accident, Colonel.” “An accident?” “Yes suh, a pure accident. I wasn’t shootin’ at that lady at all. I was shootin’ at my wife.” § 52 There Spake True Friendship To a prosperous cloak and suit merchant on the lower East Side came an acquaintance of many years’ standing. The newcomer had made a failure of it as a pushcart huckster, and then as a dealer in castoff garments. But he was undismayed; his ambition still soared. It seemed that now he aspired to open a regular store—on borrowed capital.