But it came to pass finally that I was roused up. Walking one morning to my desk to find a bit of memoranda I needed, I discovered a type-written slip marked, “No time for small talk. Boswell's tours grand success. Trolley-party to-night. Ten cars wanted. Jim.” It was a large order for a town like mine, where forty thousand people have to get along with five cars--two open ones for winter and two closed for summer, and one, which we have never seen, which is kept for use in the repair-shop. I was in despair. Ten car-loads of immortals coming to my house for a trolley-party under such conditions! It was frightful! I did the best I could, however. I ordered one trolley-car to be ready at eight, and a large variety of good things edible and drinkable, the latter to be held subject to the demand-notes of our guests. As may be imagined, I did little real work that day, and when I returned home at night I was on tenter-hooks lest something should go wrong; but fortunately Boswell himself came early and relieved me of my worry--in fact, he was at the machine when I entered the house. “Well,” he said, “have you the ten cars?” “What do you take me for,” said I, “a trolley-car trust? Of course I haven't. There are only five cars in town, one of which is kept in the repair-shop for effect. I've hired one.” “Humph!” he cried. “What will the kings do?” “Kings!” I cried. “What kings?” “I have nine kings and one car-load of common souls besides for this affair,” he explained. “Each king wants a special car.” “Kings be jiggered!” said I. “A trolley-party, my much beloved James, is an essentially democratic institution, and private cars are not de rigueur. If your kings choose to come, let 'em hang on by the straps.” “But I've charged 'em extra!” cried Boswell. “That's all right,” said I, “they receive extra. They have the ride plus the straps, with the privilege of standing out on the platform and ringing the gong if they want to. The great thing about the trolley-party is that there's no private car business about it.” “Well, I don't know,” Boswell murmured, reflectively. “If Charles the First and Louis Fourteenth don't kick about being crowded in with all the rest, I can stand anything that Frederick the Great or Nero might say; but those two fellows are great sticklers for the royal prerogative.” “There isn't any such thing as royal prerogative on a trolley-car,” I retorted, “and if they don't like what they get they can sit down in the waiting-room and wait until we get back.”