He was very much interested in the cash register, and, when he died, was one of the owners of a machine which was almost human. It would register a purchase of say $2.65, gobble up a $5 bill, and automatically hand the customer his change, viz: a two dollar bill, a twenty-five cent piece, and a dime. The change would always come out in the highest possible denominations. Mark figured on having a phonograph attached to the cash register, which would say: “Here’s your change, madam. Thank you very much.” The late H. H. Rogers, of Standard Oil Co. fame, often gave him valuable advice regarding investments. On one occasion Mark decided to have a little fun at Rogers’ expense. He went to his office one day and told him he was going to invest some money in a brickyard that could make bricks cheaper, and better and faster than any other brickyard on earth, and he wanted Rogers to invest $50,000 too. Mark told Rogers all about the wonderful method of making these marvelous bricks, and took up about an hour of Rogers’ valuable time, finally saying: “Now, Henry, I want your cheque for $50,000, and I want it NOW.” “But,” said Mr. Rogers. “There’s one important thing about the matter that you haven’t told me.” “What is that?” asked Mark. “Why,” said Mr. Rogers, “where is this brickyard of yours located?” “Oh,” exclaimed Mark disgustedly, “if you want to know that, the deal’s off!” As a matter of fact, the brickyard was a myth. It didn’t exist. All that Mark was after was to get Rogers to write out the cheque, so that he could have the laugh on him. My Old Friend, the Chicago Cub Reporter. Amongst my good old friends is Joe Dillabough, for years on the Chicago press. Joe is Canadian born, but drifted to Chicago in the early ’80’s and was the first cub reporter of the _Times_. What he doesn’t know of the seamy side of life in that great city is not worth knowing. When Joe was taken ill some years ago, we sent him out to the Canadian Rockies to recuperate, and incidentally to tell the world of the magnificence of the scenery around and about them, and how it enthralled the prominent people from the east. Joe’s first dispatch was about the unfortunate disappearance of a bishop and several priests from some outlandish country, the name of which I have forgotten, in a chasm at Banff, and of their timely rescue by Manager Mathews, of the C.P.R. hotel. It appeared in the Montreal evening papers and on going to Toronto that night I sat beside a stranger while the berths were being made up when he casually remarked that: “This is a queer story in to-night’s paper—this rescue of the bishop and priests from a chasm at Banff.” I asked in what particular way was it queer, and he said he came from that far-away land and they never had a bishop there. And I said, “Oh, Joe.”