Of purely amusing stories about Baden-Powell there have been quite enough given in the public prints to fill a small volume. Whether it is exactly pertinent to the understanding of his character to continually harp on the mirth-provoking side of it is a question which need not be answered, but no one doubts that a great man is made all the more human and all the more attractive to ordinary mortals if he happens to possess a wholesome love of fun. Love of fun, even of what very young ladies call mere frivol, appears to have possessed Baden-Powell ever since he was a small boy. He was always in for a lark. There was a master at the Charterhouse whose usual answer to any boy who bothered him with a question was a more or less testy, "Don't you know I'm engaged?" It happened to be noised abroad that this gentleman had succeeded in persuading some young lady to share his fortunes, and Baden-Powell was one of the first to hear the news. His brilliant, and one may righteously say mischievous mind, conceived a brilliant notion. He approached the Benedict-to-be as the latter stood amidst a group of other masters, and made some remark or request. Quick came the usual question: "Don't you know I'm engaged?" "Bathing-Towel" assumed one of the looks which only he could assume. "_Oh_, SIR!" he exclaimed in accents that expressed--himself best knew what. [Illustration: Britannia.] There is another story told of him which illustrates his humour in its mischievous best. He was staying at a country house whose mistress was in despair one evening because a professional conjurer on whose services she had been relying had not arrived at the time when his performance was announced to commence. She appealed to Baden-Powell to do something amusing until the man arrived. With characteristic readiness to step into a breach, Baden-Powell mounted the platform, and having announced himself as an amateur conjurer, invited any gentleman present to be so obliging as to lend him a silk hat. Some unsuspecting and innocent gentleman "obliged" in the manner requested. Baden-Powell, having carefully examined the head-gear thus entrusted to him, tore out the lining, cut off the brim, and then slowly cut the rest of the article into very small pieces. He then made a mysterious request for a tray of some particular pattern, and while the house was being ransacked for what he wanted, he amused his audience with the glib utterances of the professional entertainer. At last the tray came, and Baden-Powell heaped the fragments upon it, covered them over, and looked solemnly at his audience. "You have seen me cut up the hat," he said, "and you know that the pieces are under this covering. The next part of the performance will be to restore the hat whole to its owner. As the real conjurer has just arrived, I will leave that part of the performance to him." And therewith this very boyish man bowed himself off the platform.