Things went along swimmingly until the panic of 1893, and then the bubble burst, and the bank suffered in consequence. At a directors’ meeting, at which the president was conspicuous by his absence, it was decided that rather than have the bank fail, each stockholder would “dig up” and save it. After the meeting the members of the board went around to Mr. Promoter’s house to acquaint him with their decision. They found him smoking in his luxurious library, and he listened attentively until the spokesman had finished his explanation, and then he said: “This is a very good idea, gentlemen, very, and I only regret I cannot join you.” “Why not?” inquired almost every man at once. “Because I have absolutely nothing to give.” “What’s the matter with your business blocks?” asked one. “They belong to my wife,” suavely replied Mr. Promoter. “How about your electric railroad?” inquired another. “That, too, belongs to my wife.” “Well, to whom does this house belong?” “I gave it to my wife as soon as it was built. I am very sorry, but you see I have absolutely nothing but my body that I can call my own. I would gladly give that to be divided up if it would do any good.” “Well, gentlemen,” and Senator Power spoke for the first time, “if you decide to accept Mr. Promoter’s last proposition and take his body, I speak for his gall.” ------------------------------------------------------------------------ LI HUNG CHANG’S JOKE A salutation of respect in China is to comment on the mature and even venerable appearance of one’s guest. When the Minister to Siam called officially on Li Hung Chang he was accompanied by a prominent missionary, a man eighty years of age, with white hair and beard, who was to serve as interpreter. Unknown to Mr. Barrett, the missionary and the Chinaman had had a falling out some years before. Li came into the reception-room, saluted Mr. Barrett cordially, and bowed stiffly to the patriarchal interpreter. To the youthful minister the premier said: “I congratulate you, sir, on your venerable mien.” And then, nodding toward the octogenarian, he asked: “And is this your son?” ------------------------------------------------------------------------ Fifteen Minutes with a Playwright By HARRY L. NEWTON [COPYRIGHT MCMIII BY WILL ROSSITER] I have written the scenario of a play, which I think will prove an innovation in the drama. It is entitled plain “MICKEY THE MOUSE: or, THE POROUS PLASTER.” The porous plaster does not appear in the play at all—I merely tack it on the title to make the play draw well. ACT I