"What do you intend to do?" asked the literary editor. "I scarcely know. I do not care for the woman any longer, but I cannot escape the tortures my mind is undergoing day after day." At this point a shrill woman's voice was heard in the outer office, making some inquiry of the office boy. "Great heavens, her voice!" said the man, rising to his feet greatly agitated. "I must get out of here. Quick! Is there no way for me to escape? A window--a side door--anywhere before she finds me." The literary editor rose with indignation in his face. "For shame, sir," he said, "do not act so unworthy a part. Confront your faithless wife, Mr. Skinner, and denounce her for wrecking your life and home. Why do you hesitate to stand up for your honor and your rights?" "You do not understand," said the man, his face white with fear and apprehension, as he climbed out the window upon a shed. "I am William Wagstaff." Turkish Questions Oh, Sultan, tell us quick, we pray What was it Pasha Said? And have they burned the vilayet? So many tales we've read. Who was it passed the Dardanelles? And were they counterfeit? And why was Kharput beaten so? Was there much dust in it? Oh, Ottoman, to do like you Who Hassan eye to see The woes your country has to hear-- Armenia heart must be! And tell us, is the Bosphorus? Or is it still for you? Why is it that you every day Mustafa head or two? Somebody Lied Two men went into a saloon on Main Street yesterday and braced up solemnly to the bar. One was an old man with gray whiskers, the other was a long, lanky youth, evidently his son. Both were dressed like farm hands and they appeared somewhat bewildered at the splendor of the saloon. The bartender asked them what they would have. The old man leaned across the bar and said hoarsely and mysteriously: "You see, mister, me an' Lem just sold a load of tomatters and green corn fer nineteen dollars en a half. The old woman at home figgered we'd git just sixteen dollars and a quarter fer the truck, so me and Lem is three twenty-five ahead. When folks makes a big strike they most al'ays gets drunk, and es me and Lem never was drunk, we says, we'll git drunk and see how it feels. The feelin's pretty bully, ain't it?" "Some think so," said the bartender, "what'll you have?" They both called for whisky and stood against the bar until they had taken some five or six drinks apiece. "Feel good, Lem?" asked the old man. "Not a dam bit," said the son. "Don't feel like shoutin' and raisin' Cain?" "No." "Don't feel good at all?" "No. Feel like the devil. Feel sick, en burnin' inside." "Is yer head buzzin', Lem, and er achin'?" "Yes, Dad, en is yer knees a kind er wobblin', en yer eyes a waterin'?" "You bet, en is yer stummick er gripin' en does yer feel like yer had swallowed a wild cat en er litter of kittens?"