I noticed a small chap on a bicycle riding zigzag in front of the machine, evidently anxious to keep up with it and get to the fire in time to watch it begin work. Half a dozen times the driver had to pull up suddenly to avoid running over the nervy little Hebrew, and this of course made the firemen riding with the machine furious. Just in front of where I was standing one of the gallant life savers jumped down from the engine, caught hold of the boy and pulled him off to one side, at the same time saying: [Illustration] "You miserable little Sheeney, you ought to be arrested for getting in the way! I've a good mind to spank you." The boy looked at the fireman in surprise and whimpered: "If it wasn't for the Jews you wouldn't have anything to do." I often squander an hour or two down in Hester Street, where I have some rare acquaintances among the second-hand dealers. Of course you understand that I only go there to study human nature, and I remember some months ago being delightfully entertained at a Jewish wedding, where my esteemed friend Moses Schaumburg gave his cherished Rebecca into the keeping of young Silverstein, a progressive Broadway salesman. This fact was brought to my mind when, only the other day I saw the bridegroom rush into his father-in-law's establishment bearing a look of excitement, and also a few very positive scratches upon his olive face, and exclaiming dramatically: "Mister Schaumburg, I vants you to dake back your daughter Rebecca." [Illustration] The old man threw up his hands. "I dakes not dot Repecca back. Ven a man comes to my house, picks out himself a piece of goots, and dot goots vas received by him in goot order, I vould be a fool to dake pack dot goods. No, sir, you schoost keep dot Repecca." [Illustration] My brother Tom was hit on the head some time ago, and at the hospital they said they would have to amputate half his brain. I didn't want them to, because he is absent-minded anyway. "We'll have to give him something to make him sleep," said one of the surgeons. "That won't be necessary," said another; "he's a policeman." That made Tom sore, and he snapped: "I've got half a mind to cave in your ribs for you." "You won't feel that way in a minute," said the surgeon, "because that's the half of your mind we're going to cut out." It was a great operation. When I told my wife of the surgeon's little joke and how Tom came back at him she said she never knew a time when Tom wasn't ready to give anybody a piece of his mind. Tom was a confirmed dyspeptic, too, and when the operator was taking an X-ray photograph of the seat of his troubles, this waggish brother of mine, with a ghastly attempt to be facetious, said: "This, I suppose, is what might be called taking light exercise on an empty stomach." [Illustration] Perhaps it may surprise you to hear me say that some years ago I was connected with the newspaper business.