"I should like to try your glands but haven't enough money to pay for being done. Hoping you can arrange this for me, I beg to remain, "Dear Sir, "Yours fraternally, "JOHN SLEEP. "P.S.--Could you come and see me one morning. I am healthy except for my feet, which are eat up with rheumatics so that I cannot get about much." "Chuck it aside," said Gran'pa. "This isn't a new bath salts or mineral waters treatment. We can't do anything with rheumaticky people." "Poor devil," I said. "He'll think that poverty is the real bar." "Very well! Write and tell him that it isn't. Say we're full up, but that he'll be put on the waiting list." "And leave him hoping--in vain?" "While there's hope there's life at that age," said Gran'pa. "It'll give him a new interest in existence. In a business like this we can't be influenced by sentimental considerations." We had letters from people who wished to rejuvenate their parents or grandparents, from people who were under 70 (but felt slightly over), and a few from old ladies. One of these last, a spinster, wished to remain on earth a few years longer in order to look after her dogs and to minister to "poor dumb creatures" belonging to others. We even had an application from a ninety-one-year-old member of the House of Lords, who was evidently dreaming of his lost greatness and hoping that, with youth on his side, he might be able to stem the tide of the new labor movement and save Britain from the dogs. His letter was really an essay on politics, liberally peppered with "damns." "Here's a rigmarole from a lord," I said to Gran'pa. "He has a mission to perform in the way of . . ." "So have I," answered Gran'pa, tersely. "I'm an American--a republican. These wonderful, complicated and aristocratic titles all leave me cold. Let him die--or get his own glands." A little reluctantly, I put the coronetted notepaper among the rejected and turned to the next application. "SIR," it began austerely, "If your appeal is genuine I would have you beware, lest by tampering with the inscrutable laws of nature, you bring down on your head the malediction of God. According to our deserts are we spared to live on this earth," and so on. . . . "According to our deserts!" exclaimed Gran'pa, when I showed him the document. "What about the youngsters who were killed in the war? . . . Burn the damned thing, George! . . . And listen to this:-- "'DEAR SIR,