358 



THE AMERICAN BEE-KEEPER. 



December 



hotel at which she was stopping, and 

 tried to get rooms there myself, but it 

 was full up. This was why I coustautly 

 missed her — she was always goiug off 

 somewhere, aud whenever I followed 

 her she always caught the train or boat 

 that I just missed. So, although I 

 dodged about for a fortnight, I didn't 

 meet her once. The amount of money I 

 spent chasing about and making in- 

 quiries and tipping pec/pi^? was some- 

 thing appalling, but of course I dvln't 

 mind that. " 



"Well, " I said, "I don't see why you 

 should kill yourself because you missed 

 her in Switzerland." 



"Let me go on," said the cub stern- 

 ly, "and then you'll understand why. 

 Just as I was thinking of giving it up 

 and coming home I heard that she aud 

 her party had gone to Chamouni, with 

 the intention of ascending Mont Blanc. 

 Of course — just my luck — I was a train 

 and a coach behind, as you go to Cluses 

 by train and then coach on to Chamouni. 

 When I finally got there, I was told that 

 the party I was in search of had started 

 tip some hours before. I asked whether 

 it wouldn't be possible to catch them 

 op, but the great fool of a guide I was 

 talking to just laughed and made a face. 

 Then he told me that I could watch 

 them through a telescope, but as for 

 catching them up that was impossible. 

 Well," continued the cub, "I paid my 

 money and the telescope chap put me 

 on to them at once. He said they were 

 nearly 4,000 feet above the valley, but 

 I could see them as plainly as if they 

 were only 50 yards away. There were 

 five or six people. Just as I had got my 

 eyes on Mousie a great fat Johnnie who 

 was walking a few yards behind her ac- 

 tually went up, and — and" — 



The cub paused. "Goon," I said. 

 "What did he do?" 



"Why" — with heaving chest and glar- 

 ing eyes — "he put his arm inside hers 

 and began talking and laughing as if 

 he'd known her all her life!" 



"And what did she do?" 



"Talked and laughed back." 



"Well?" 



"Well, isn't that enough? She's en- 

 gaged to him — that's clear. I came slap 

 home and here I am. It's all over. In 

 five minutes I shall be dead!" 



I started from my chair. 



"There must be some mistake," I ex- 



CJaimed. "Tne man you saw was evi- 

 dently a relative. " 



"I know all the members of her fam- 

 ily," said the cub, "and there's no man 

 like chat in it. No; she's engaged. I 

 don't care to' live any longer." 



"Look here. Jack," I said desperate- 

 ly, "let me make some inquiries. I give 

 you my solemn word of honor that I 

 won't say anything about your — er — in- 

 tentions. Let me go to your place and 

 try to find out the truth of the matter. 

 Trust me not to give you away. " 



The sun shone out gayly just then. 

 Perhaps the cub thought it a pity to 

 leave it so suddenly. At any rate he 

 said: "I won't do anything till you 

 come back — I swear it. Now go!" 



So off I went post haste to the Jungle, 

 and when I returned with the news 

 that a relative the cub had never heard 

 of had suddenly returned he was will- 

 ing to live long enough to try his luck 

 l,nd succeeded. — Exchange. 



A Slau Is No Hero to His Typewriter. 



The mystery of men's lives in the 

 world, out of which illusions are spun, 

 has always had a greater influence in 

 determining the fate of women than is 

 readily admitted. To feel transmitted 

 through the ring finger the electric 

 thrill of business, of politics, of clubs, 

 of the stirring movements in the life of 

 men, gives any woman vantage ground 

 over others of her sex. But in the actual 

 commerce of business, the community 

 of affairs, the wear and tear of daily 

 life in offices and elevators, this mystery 

 vanishes. A couple of typewriters at 

 luncheon will illustrate badly a situa- 

 tion yet too new to be fairly reckoned 

 up. Over knife aud fork they will match 

 employers as small boys do pennies. 



Out of hours the boss is only a man 

 of whose necktie they may disapprove, 

 or of the way he wears his hair or per- 

 haps of his grammar, and it may be he 

 appears greatly to the advantage of 

 some young man at a neighboring ma- 

 chine. — Mary Gay Humphreys in Scrib- 

 ner's. 



An Obstacle. 



First Chicago Woman — And you had 

 to get rid of Fido? 



Second Chicago Woman — Yes, he got 

 cross aud wouldn't let any strange hus- 

 bands come in the house. — Detroit 

 Tribune. 



