"Oh, I spot balls." "That's nothing," I remarked, casually, "I used to work in a cheese factory." "And what did you do?" "Oh, play baseball." "What, baseball in a cheese factory, Mr. Niblo!" "Sure, I used to chase flies. That got tiresome and I went to work in a barber shop." "What were your duties there?" "I used to mix lather." "And what did you mix lather for?" "Oh, to lather Irishmen and Dutchmen, etc." "I have a brother who works in an eye hospital," said Chauncey, soberly. "What does he do?" "Oh, he makes goo-goo eyes." "That's nothing, I have a sister who works in a watch factory making faces." [Illustration] And so we pass the retort discourteous, and exchange pleasantries as only old friends may. In the Catskill village, where we delight to spend a portion of the heated term and all our hard-earned capital, there is a boarding-house run by an eccentric genius, who knows how to set a good table and never has an empty room through the season, though over the gate leading up to his hotel he has painted a sign that might well cause consternation in the breast of many a would-be sojourner, for it reads: "Boarders taken by the day, week or month. Those who do not pay promptly will be taken by the neck." [Illustration: Boarders taken by the day, week or month. Those who do not pay promptly will be taken by the neck.] There were some rumors floating around that this remarkable Boniface, as a Christian Science advocate, had been benefited to an astonishing extent in the recovery of his health. Being of an investigating turn of mind, and anxious to learn all that was possible concerning the latest fad, I cornered old Bijinks out near the hog-pen and engaged him in conversation, during which he made a positive assertion that rather staggered me. "Do you mean to tell me that you actually believe Christian Science cured you?" I demanded, eagerly. "Sure," he said, nodding. "Of appendicitis?" "B'gosh, no--of Christian Science." There was a crusty old bachelor at the house who got disgusted with the spoony couples and came up to my room to talk it over with me. "What is love, anyway?" he demanded. "Intoxication," I answered, unguardedly. "Right," he quickly said, "then possibly marriage must be delirium tremens." Before I could recover my breath he fired another hot shot at me. "There's three things I never could stand if I ever married." "And what are they?" I asked. "Triplets." I tried to give him the old gag about a woman's heart being a gold mine. "That's right," he said; "you've got to prospect it before you find out what it's worth; and I know a whole lot of fellows who've gone broke prospecting." That landlord of ours up in the glorious Catskills was a hard subject to catch napping, and many a time I've watched him crawl out of a hole with hardly an effort. Probably it requires considerable nerve to run a summer resort hotel, and meet all the requirements which the traveling public seem to expect.