Among the wittiest of the lot was Mr. Travers, who was handicapped by an impediment of speech, a slight stammer, that was almost fascinating. One day, he asked me if I knew where he could purchase a good dog that could kill rats. A lady friend had commissioned him to purchase one. I took him to a dog fancier's in Houston Street and introduced him to the canine connoisseur. In a few moments Travers was the possessor of as fine a looking terrier as I ever saw. When I told the proprietor who his customer was he was overwhelmed and, taking him to one side, said, "Mr. Travers, I want to give you a practical demonstration of what that dog can do with a rat." "Ger-ger-a-go to it," replied Travers, "b-b-bring on your rer-rer-rat and I'll rer-rer-referee the ber-ber-battle." In a few minutes the man returned and threw the largest rat I ever saw into the pit. It had flowing gray whiskers and looked every inch a fighter as it stood on its hind legs ready for battle. The dog looked at it for a moment as if in surprise at the bellicose attitude of the rodent. While the terrier hesitated the rat acted! With one flying leap Sir Rodent fastened his teeth upon the upper lip of the dog. Howling with pain the canine finally shook off the rat and with a yell jumped over the pit and ran yelping down the street. The owner started after him, but Travers held him back, saying, "Nev-nev-never mind the d-d-dog, wha-wha-what'll you take for the rat?" One day Travers was inspecting one of the palatial steamers that had been built by James Fisk, Jr., and Jay Gould. As he passed down to the main saloon, he was confronted by two huge medallions, painted in oil, of Fisk and Gould, on each side of the stairway. He looked at them for a moment, then turned to one of his companions, saying: "Where is the per-per-picture of our Saviour?" _Chapter XXXII_ JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY It was just after I had learned of the serious illness of that delightful poet and blessed friend, James Whitcomb Riley, the Bobby Burns of America, that I penned the following: How cruel of Nature to take one of her favorite children if she decides to! Why make humanity weep and chill our hearts? Why cause the Indiana flowers to cry for a gardener--for who will sing their praises when dear Jim has gone? Why clog "The Old Swimmin' Hole" with weeds? When our truant fancy wanders to "That Old Sweetheart of Mine," we won't purchase tickets for "Grigsby's Station" for "The Latch String" will have been severed. No coffee will be served "Like Mother Used to Make" for "Dat Leedle Boy of Mine."