I guess he got all the laffin he wanted, cos he'd no sooner got inter the hotel dore, before every man, woman, and child run up to him, and tride to giv him a baby, wot they sed was his. Baby's was lyin round permiskusly, all over the desks, floors, and barroom. The rooms, up stairs, was chock full of baby's. Xtra cots was lade out in the halls, and every cot, had half a dozen baby's on to it, and every baby had a card pinned on its does, wot red:--Tom Wilson, Susie Wilson, Paddy Wilson, Biddy Wilson, and every Wilson you could think of. Eight pages of the reges-ter was filled with there names, and every page was hedded with the Editturs own name, John Wilson, Father. Wen he got to his own room, he found his wife cryin, lik her heart was brok. Soon as she cot site of him she let out a shreek wot brot everybodie in the hotel to there room, and sung out: “John Wilson youre a monsteer, youre a vaggerbone, youre a rech, youre a inferrnus skoundrel. Take me back to my mama, rite away, and if youve got a spark of manhood about you, you'll go and make wot little restertushin you can, to the mothers of these wurse than orfans.” Quicker'an litenin, Mr. Wilson tumbelled, and laffin a fiendish grin, he sung out in axcents wild: “Get me a Gatlin Gun, and lode it down to the mussle with thirty-leven charges of dannymite, and let me get a shot, at that incorragerbel imp of Haydes, the _Buster's_ Devil.” Then carmin down a littel, he took this mornins paper outen his pocket and red out loud to the crowd: “Wanted; a fine, helthy infant for adopshun. No questshuns ast. Leeve it at the Metrypolytan hotel for John Wilson, mannergin edittur _Daily Buster_.” This put everybodie in good humer agen, and, after settin up the drinks for the crowd, Mr. and Mrs. Wilson went out to the country to hire a farm and sum wimmin to take care of the baby's till homes culd be secured for 'em. I guess him and his wife's sickened on baby's enyway, cos I hurd him tellin the hotel clurk that they'd had all the baby's round them that they'd ever have, by gumbo. And now, Mr. Diry, I must close for to-nite, cos I've got to smoke the 25-center wot the religus edittur giv me for the laff he'd had outer my joke on Mr. Wilson. CHAPTER XVIII. AT THE MASQUE BALL.--FRIVERLUS FIXINS.--A PARISIEN GREASETTE, WOT MASHED THE MASKULINE CHARACKTERS.--MR. GILLEY COT IN HER TOILS.--THE DEVIL IT IS. Last nite Mr. Gilley giv me a invyta-shun to the fancy masque ball, wot all New York's ben torkin bout for the last six weaks. It was to be a toney affaire, so wen I got hum I went all thru my wardrobe, but culdn't find nothin fancyer than the cloes I wore wen I painted the back fense at our house red with green trimmins. I seen they was hardly prackterkel, cos there was a feint oder of cows & horses clingin to them wot the heet of the ball room mite develop in a way wot wuldn't be satisfacktorie to myself or the delercate knoeses of the other aristocrazey present.