Two decades passed. In 1920 Green was reporting the National Republican Convention at Chicago. One evening he boarded a trolley car. The car was crowded and Green found standing room on the rear platform. Something about the face of the conductor stirred a memory long buried in his brain. He studied the countenance of the other for a minute and then the answer came to him. “Say, look here,” he asked. “Aren’t you Brennan of the old team of Brennan and Swenson that used to do a turn at the summer park in St. Louis way back about 1900?” “That’s right,” said the conductor. Then with a sigh he added, “Sure, but thim was the happy days.” “What made you quit the stage?” asked Green. “It was on me wife’s account,” said the ex-Thespian. “She got so she couldn’t stand it no longer, me bustin’ thim cobblestones on her head.” “Gave her headaches, I suppose,” said Green. “No, not that,” said Brennan. “It bruk her arches down.” § 115 At the Crossing of the Ways Beyond question his Honor on the bench was cross-eyed. Some persons went so far as to say that he was the crossest-eyed person or the cross-eyedest person, as the grammar may be, in the known world. On a morning when for some reason or other his angles of vision seemed particularly out of alignment there were arraigned before him for preliminary examination three youths charged with hypothecating a stranger’s automobile to their own use. The oldest of the trio, and the supposed ringleader, stood between his two alleged confederates. Addressing the middle one the judge said: “Young man, you are accused here of grand larceny. How do you plead, guilty or not guilty?” Instantly the one on the left said: “Not guilty, Your Honor.” “I wasn’t addressing you,” sniped His Honor. “I was addressing this other accused. Wait until you’re spoken to.” “Why, judge,” protested the one on the right. “I ain’t said a word.” § 116 The Mysterious Stranger The Scotch minister and his beadle, or sexton as we would call him, had attended a Masonic banquet and had done themselves, as the saying goes, exceedingly well. The dominie was a bachelor. His housekeeper was a very strict lady and he was a bit doubtful as to what his reception would be on his return to the manse. He considered the situation for a bit and then to his beadle he said: “John, I think I’ll slip in at the back door the nicht.” The beadle, who believed in upholding the dignity of the kirk, replied emphatically: “You’ll do naething o’ the kind. Y’re meenister o’ this parish an’ ye’ll go in by your own front door.” “Weel, then,” said the clergyman, “I’ll walk in front o’ you for a bit an’ you watch how I get alang.” The minister proceeded ahead, striving to walk straight in the moonlight, and the beadle propping himself on his own unsteady pins, squinted his eyes in earnest observation. Presently the dominie called back over his shoulder: “How am I getting alang, John?”