M

ACT I.

RS. FARNSWORTH made a funny little sound in her throat, a sound peculiarly blended to express surprise and delight. It was neither a giggle nor an exclamation: Mrs. Farnsworth was not unduly emotional.

Mr. Farnsworth glanced across the morning paper interrogatively.

He had heard that funny little sound before.

"Well? Has Mrs. Lenox sent you that coveted receipt for orange marmalade, has grandfather Dennett turned up his toes-at last-and left you the 60 thousand he's been promising all these years?"

With another glance at the open letter beside her plate, Mrs. Farnsworth poureu her waiting spouse's coffee. "You know I don't like you to refer to grandfather Dennett that way, Rob., we all are aware that he's a tiresome old crank, but at the same time it's no way to speak of the aged," with a truly feminine right to contradict her own statements. "Besides, I'm too happy to scold, or even think about grandfather D. This, "waving the letter," contains glorious

news.

You remember Beatrix, my chum of chums at college? She's coming to make us a visit, she and her husband, professor Bromley, and Rob," running round the table to perch on his chair arm, "they'll be here tonight. Isn't that perfectly scrumptious?" Emphasizing the last word by a resounding kiss planted on the little "thin spot" on top Rob's dome of thought.

"U-m-yes, s'pose so, but aren't they giving us short notice?" With a mere man's deliberation concerning things in general and visitors in particular.

"Yes. But you see they are leaving unexpectedly themselves.

"Listen," referring to the letter. "Bea writes that her mother has been visiting them and when she returned East she took Baby back with her, insisting that he needed a change of air. He's teething, and the Professor"

"The Professor teething?"

"Why no, how stupid you are! Baby is teething and as he is much better they are coming on to take him back home, and will

make us a short visit upon arrival.

"Why, I haven't seen Bea, since we graduated from college, three years ago. I've never met her husband and" with another emphasis on top of Rob's head, "she's never seen mine. I'm just so happy to think you're going to meet."

"Whats' Professor Bromley's line?" "Line? O you mean business. He's Psychological Instructor in the college town where they live."

"Psychology? That's fine. We'll have about as much in common as a fox terrier and a cat."

Mrs. Farnsworth's face clouded. "Rob., you can talk on any subject, and talk well." Mr. Farnsworth smiled a doubtful acknowledgment of the compliment. "As civil engineering happens to be my business I can put a fair spiel on ditches, railroad beds or house lots to be. Base ball, politics, run a close second but when it comes to "isms," protoplasms, microbes or Nebular Hypotheses I'm down for the count.

"By the way," preparing for the worst, "What is Mrs. Bromly's special stunt?"

"O she's devoted to astronomy-really, at college she was a wonder-received Honorable Mention for astronomical research, and then she made a special study of hygiene you know, sterilized hat pins, vacuum cleansed dish cloths and-er, sleeping out doors."

Rob. groaned inwardly but preserved an outward calm.

Scarcely two years married, with as yet no cloud upon the matrimonial horizon, no sighs or groans of his should be instrumental in placing a damper, atmospheric or otherwise, upon his wife's happiness.

"And I've decided," continued Mrs. Farnsworth, "to have that small shelter tent we took camping last Fall, set up on the back lawn for Bea. to sleep in, and I musn't forget to order extra cereals and vegetables, for I remember now, that Bea. is a strict vegetarian." With this parting injunction to her memory, Mrs. Farnsworth accompanied her husband to the door.

As he hurried down the steps he called, "How long do you expect these high-browed guests to stay, Alice?"

"Until tomorrow. I told you," reproachfully, "they are coming East to bring Baby back, and will spend what extra time they have with Bea.'s mother, and please remember we shall have dinner promptly at 7."

ACT II.

The train which bore Mr. Farnsworth homeward was exactly one half hour late.

Things have not gone well at the office and the day had been insufferably hot.

His head ached, and he felt annoyed to have kept his wife's guests waiting dinner. Hurriedly skirting the back lawn, he entered the rear door, wishing to avoid contract with strangers until the traces of a hard day were removed.

He noted the shelter tent, placed at the right of the clothes reel. Noted, as he passed through the kitchen that Sarah, the 'household treasure' was preparing an ex tra-sized vegetable salad.

If the afore mentioned household treasure grinned, knowingly, Rob. was too absorbed in his own troubles to heed her facial expression.

Once in his room, he discarded a wilted collar and sank lively into a chair. Upon the bed reposed a "change" also his semiformal dinner raiment. To the coat collar was pinned a note which read: "Be sure and dress for dinner and for goodness sake don't talk politics or baseball with Professor Bromley, for I don't think he is interested in anything outside Psychology.

I've looked

up the p, s, y,'s in the encyclopedia and am quite sure I can keep up my end of the conversation: all you will have to do is CO say yes, or no, or I quite agree! I find Bea. changed, somehow, but I've looked up recent treatises on advanced Hygiene, also run through my old astronomy.

"P. S. Remember all you have to say is 'yes, no, or I quite agree.' I'll do the rest and for heaven's sake don't suggest cigars or bottled beer after dinner, unless you want the Professor to put us down as degenerate Heathens. Alice"

Perspiring but determined, Mr. Farnsworth descended upon his guests.

A tall-very tall-thin man rose to grasp his hosts' welcoming hand.

Mr. Farnsworth noted with inward satisfaction that his guests' russet-hued locks were encircled by a 'thin spot' covering considerably more area than his own.

A short, fat, delightfully rosy cheeked lady pumped Rob's. arm in lazy acknowledgment of his greeting, murmuring that she was "too hungry to exert herself to be polite until after dinner."

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Rob. glanced at his wife. She appeared in excellent poise, but her color was high And there was an odd little twinkle in her eyes. Further deductions were cut short by the household treasure's announcement that dinner was served.

Once seated around the daintily appointed table, Rob. proceeded to minister to his guests' inward wants.

Would Mrs. Bromley try some of the roast beef?

She would. Did she prefer an inside or outside cut?

"The outside, please, and with plenty of gravy. If there's one thing I adore its rare roast beef, the rarer the better, and I simply never get enough gravy."

So speaking she gingerly pushed aside the vegetable salad, cereals and fruit whicu flanked her plate.

Rob. thought he heard his wife gasp, but concentrated his attention on the carving. Professor Bromley was not particular about the cut of his roast. He stated simply, that so long as he got enough to eat he did not care whether the sustenance furnished came from the hoofs of a Harlem goat or from behind horns of a Texas steer.

Again Rob. thought he heard his wife gasp, but his attention was diverted by Mrs. Bromley's request for a second helping"rare, please, with plenty of gravy."

Professor Bromley ate sparingly. Rob. noted that his eyes turned continually towards the side board whereon rested sundry decanters and glasses.

Rob's subconscious being was wrestling with the question whether his wife had entirely mistaken the calibre of her guests, but like the staunch husband that he was he made no visible sign of doubt and awaited developments.

After Mrs. Bromley had disposed of her second helping, her hostess ventured the introduction of interesting topics.

"Bea." she began, "I've grown dreadfully rusty on astronomy, but I looked over my old text book today, and I read a comprehensive treatise on advance Hygiene, just to put a gloss on my ignorance.

"Doubtless you have kept in touch and can give me the benefits of your broadened knowledge. What is your idea concerning the sterlization of garbage barrels, and do tell me if Lunar observations are still progressive, or has astronomical research concentrated its efforts to Siderial conditions of the planet Mars?"

Mrs. Bromley passed her plate for a third helping.

"Really, Alice you can search me! Since Baby came I've left garbage barrels to the maid-or the Board of Health-and," smiling complacently, "the only astronomy I care to study now is the light that shines in Baby's eyes."

Silenced, but with undaunted courage, Mrs. Farnsworth turned an appealing glance towards her husband. Taking his cue he beamed on Mrs. Bromley and murmured, "yes-I mean no-I quite agree with you."

His wife flushed and would have given every cut glass article in sight could she have pressed Rob.'s foot under the table.

Turning to the silent Professor with suppressed determination, she begged him to advance some of his views on Psychology. Did he maintain that the hypnotic bore directly upon the temporary supremacy of mind over matter, or vice versa?"

Professor Bromley, whose eyes still sought the sideboard replied, "My dear lady the present-day thirst, the accentuated thirst for occult knowledge-and other things-is highly commendable. It will give me great pleasure to allay your thirst so far as lays in my power, but first I would ask your husband to kindly mix me a cocktail."

Pressing his napkin to his lips to hide a smile, Rob. hastened to administer to his guests' material thirst.

The cocktail drained, the Professor continued.

"Briefly, Psychology embodies but one fundamental principle, that of believing what you don't believe yourself and convincing others that what they don't believe is a prima facie fact."

Mrs. Farnsworth looked duly impressed. Mr. Farnsworth nodded and murmured "yes-I mean no-I quite agree with you."

Thoroughly exasperated Mrs. Farnsworth made no further attempts to enliven the conversation: Dinner ended in silence. "Come Bea. I want to show you the house and my Chinese asters, they're just flowering."

Taking her friends arm she piloted her to the back lawn, leaving the Professor and Rob. to their own devices.

"There's the tent I've put up for you to occupy to night."

"Tent?" Eyeing the canvas structure critically.

"O, I've given up sleeping out doorssince Baby came. Really, unless one is positively tubercular sleeping in the open is an unnecessary detail." Mrs. Farnsworth stooped over the aster bed.

"Here dear," thrusting some pink blossoms into her guests' hand, lets' go back and have a nice little chat in the parlor."

The 'chat' was entirely one sided, consisting of detailed accounts of Baby-his three lovely new teeth, his remarkable intelligence, his pronounced keness to the Professor, including the russet-hued locks.

Mrs. Farnsworth becoming a bit bored suggested that they go up stairs and inspect the new sewing room.

Sounds of revelry proceeded from the kitchen. Could it be possible that the household treasure was entertaining when she, the Mistress, had guests?

Tiptoeing to the kitchen door she paused on the threshhold.

Professor Bromley, divested of coat and vest, his feet elevated upon the window sill, was remarking. "You take it from me Brother Farnsworth, Psychology is all right if you can earn your living by teaching it but if I'd had enough brains to become a civil engineer I should not be gracing a wayback college town with my presence."

In one hand the speaker held a bottle of beer, the other contained a cigar with which he punctuated the impressive part of his remark.

"Well, Brother Bromley, if I'd had enough brains to teach psychology perhaps I'd be earning more than I do as a civil engineer-and there you are!"

"Say," with deep feeling, "howd' you think the Blue Sox stand against the Internationals?"

"Think? I don't think, I'm dead sure! Why man alive, I've got two months' salary banked on the Blue Sox, and-" Mrs. Farnsworth waited to hear no more. Tiptoeing back she motioned Bea. to follow her up stairs.

Once in the sewing room she sank contentedly into a low chair.

whether the milky way is made of green cheese or sole leather. What I want to know is, should an infant be put into short or long clothes the first year of its blessed life?"

Mrs. Bromly gathered her hostess into her arms.

"You dear child," she whispered, "I'll tell you all about it."

Presently Mrs. Farnsworth called down the back stairs.

"Boys, when you get ready to retire, be sure and put out the lights and don't forget to lock the back door. Bea. and I are going into executive session and do not wish to be disturbed."

AWYERS held their national union convention at Milwaukee during the latter part of August, and they showed how far behind the times they were and how accomplished is the "profession" in trying to put over a bluff.

It is significant of the behind-thetimes character of the bar association that fifty years after they are freed it should be discussing the status of negroes. Other organizations determined that problem for themselves forty or twenty years ago, but the bar association is handling it in this year of grace.

The recall of judges or decisions-it doesn't matter which-roused the ire of the gentlemen with the ancient ideas. They said the recall would deprive us of judges of ability, integrity and those possessed of a due regard for enlightened public sentiment. In other words, the more democracy we inject into the selection of judges, the less democratic our judiciary will become. That is possible, but hardly probable in this twentieth century. And if it were probable it would not disturb the lawyers

as a class, judging by their past record, including those on and off the bench.

The recall of judges is not in the interest of the common people, says the bar association.

And for why?

Because the courts are the greatest bulwark for the protection of the mass of the people.

There never was a time in America when any man-no matter how poor and humble-could not apply to the courts and be assured of protection.

The Bar Association says these things with all the air of honesty and the evident desire to have the people believe the assertions.

The cost of litigation alone denounces as false the assertion about the poor man being able to secure justice. If a wealthy corporation were to do me a wrong and I went to the writer of the bar association's resolution seeking advice, the probabilities are he would tell me to take what I could get, as I didn't possess sufficient money to fight the corporation in

the courts. Notwithstanding the world knows that it takes a heap of money to win a law suit, the bar association has the brazen nerve to laud the courts as the haven of the oppressed poor and the judges as the conservators of human rights and the champions of an enlightened public opinion.

It's the old game of bluff, but it will hardly work this time, the legal profession is under fire and the missiles hurled at it cannot be turned aside by the defense of the lawyers-wind and words.

* * *

This four-sided presidential election has them all guessing. Though Taft is not growing in popularity, he may win the seat through some fluke. Col. George Harvey, editor of Harper's Weekly, the North American Review and most polished of the reactionaries, has been doing some calculating. He takes a number of pages to prove that in the end the fight for the presidency may be between Candidate Wilson and Vice-President Sherman, with a possibility of Secretary of State Knox getting the plum. This involves throwing the election into Congress, and the Senate and the House being unable to agree. That contingency is not likely to arise, and the probabilities are that Editor Harvey developed his prophecy more for the purpose of getting some free advertising than anything else. Then he may have been actuated by a desire to convey a word of cheer to his masters in the camp of the plunderbund, for it would be like taking money from children for them to have such a corporation "trusty" as Sherman or Knox in the White House.

Speaking of Taft's chances, I am reminded that some stalwart republican editors have called on the president to make a fighting campaign. Taft, it is said, doesn't see it that way, and declines to go on the stump, as that would be undignified. That is a strange reason coming from one who when a candidate four years ago, was so lacking in manhood as to avow himself the standard-bearer of another man's policies, and one who indulged in the slang-whanging primary campaign of a few months ago. But the reason is not material; what is interesting is that those republican editors said if Taft did not enliven the campaign he would be beat.

* **

Some people are amazed at the revelations of crookedness made in Penrose's attack on Roosevelt. I am not; I am sur

prised, however, at the newspapers giving the affair so much prominence, for some of that money will surely be traced to newspaper men. Roosevelt is a lucky fellow, for if he takes the advice Hearst gave him in his papers and tells all he knows, then Bull Moose stock will go up.

At this writing Roosevelt does not seem inclined to act on Hearst's advice and tell the whole truth, but the Bull Mooser is fond of creating dramatic situations, and he may spring something astounding and crushing in the latter days of the campaign.

Meantime the socialist campaign is not creating the usual amount of excitement, though reports say meetings are being attended as never before, and straw votes indicate more than a million ballots for Debs and Seidel.

* * *

It is impossible nowadays to pick up a trade magazine or an employers' paper without seeing an article or so-maybe a dozen-on efficiency. As a rule, these articles are devoted to the producing end of the business. The writers are busy showing how to get a little more work out of the producers or a little better quality for the same money as poorer quality. I have no quarrel with men being as capable as they can be. We cannot know too much about the business or trade through which we get our bread and butter. The more skilful we are the easier we get along, as individuals and organizations. But much that is spoken and written about efficiency is unsocial and absurd. Many of its advocates are labor-grinders, narrow, money-grabbing, selfish creatures who are unable to think socially, and who do not care or cannot see the effect of their schemes on the welfare of the human family.

It is not on that phase of the efficiency campaign that I want to write, however. I would like to rise and ask "Why is the producer always the subject of these investigations, suggestions, reforms and sometimes attacks?"

When the producers ask for more wages, they are told that distributing the goods is the great problem; or, if it happens to be contractors we are dealing with, the orthodox retort is that it costs like the very devil to get jobs. Getting a coutract and selling the finished goods are practically the same thing.

What it costs goes into the selling price. And if distribution is the great