It was one of those gentle precautions imperative in the garnering of prairie brain-sheaves before they are ripe. It was dulcet and hospitable to see that the Jovian locks of Ham Garland were not pulled out by the roots by vulgar _menu-people_ who look upon him as the man who invented a profitless base burner of coal eating propensity; it was thoughtful, indeed, to prevent the clamor of huzzas when the editor should announce, “Mr. Cudahy has came,” (the unhappy word editor used in its ancient horse sense of course). Imagine this author of a symphony in pig skin bristling with humor bristles which alone have been quoted worth the price of his book—imagine Cudahy the bovox, anointed, full of his own bristles, elbowing his luminous way to the vaudeville through hollow squares of Women Who Wished They Had, and panting Ladies Who Would Like to Know How! The impressionistic picture conjured up in the excited mind of the pale but defiant entertainer was that Chicago, startled out of its rawhide boots at this threat of brain-waves rampant, would stampede the sacred apartments of the undefiled and snatch the prairie literati bald-headed. There had arrived a moment when the blushing, the palpitating host could not tip his laurel at a wise guy angle over his eye and say “shoo” real loud at rabid possibilities in a suppositious mob. The squall for assistance was prettily timed and cautiously secret, but chiefs of police are difficult upon occasion. Mr. Badenoch has been persistently engaged in convincing the public of Chicago that gambling was a thing of the past in that pellucid city of oatmeal porridge and Christian conversation, and his inveterate denials shaped themselves into a stereotyped response reverberative to the letters. Quoth solemn John, the chief, who keeps a hay store off days when he is not chasing the elusive Chicago tin horn gambler and gallant distributor of emerald merchandise: “There must be some mistake about the danger in a convention of these Chicago literary people. My agents have given me every assurance that no confidence games or persons obtaining money under false pretenses have been discovered within the city limits. I never heard of any of these literatis myself and do not think there need be any scare about a mob looking for them. “(Signed) “J. J. BADENOCH, “Police Sup’t. and Feed Store, Chicago.” It was a calm, still night when the modest vaudeville twinkled and stragglers in the field of newspaper art and magazine advertising, even unto Hobo Chatty-Chatfield Tea, crept noiselessly up a deserted avenue to be welcomed by the disappointed but relieved young hosts who blinked in hesitating peace at the empty street and the strangely unattended luminaries who climbed up stairs without interruption or acclaim. * * * * *