Finally he went to the State of Montana.  He believed he could have a Season of Merriment by depositing some Valuable Ore in a Deserted Mine, and then selling the Mine to Eastern Speculators.  While he was Salting the Mine, pausing once in a while to Control his Mirth, a few Natives came along, and were Interested.  They were a slow and uncouth Lot, with an atrophied Sense of Humor, and the Prank did not Appeal to them.  They asked the Joker to Explain, and before he could make it Clear to them or consult his Attorney they had him Suspended from a Derrick.  He did not Hang straight enough to suit, so they brought a Keg of Nails and tied to his Feet, and then stood off and Shot at the Buttons on the Back of his Coat.

MORAL:  Don’t Carry a Joke too far, and never Carry it into Montana.

THE FABLE OF THE CRUEL INSULT AND THE ARRIVAL OF THE LOVER FROM NO. 6

One Morning there came into the Dining Room of the Peerless Hotel at Welby’s Junction an English Tourist and the Advance Agent of the Mabel Mooney Repertoire Company.

They took their Places at the Table underneath a Chromo representing a Pyramid of Idealized Fruit.  The Table was covered with Sail Cloth, and in the Center was the Corroded Caster, which gave out a Sound similar to that of the Galloping Horse in the War Drama whenever any one walked across the Floor.

The English Traveler appeared to have received Bad News from Home, but he had not.  That was the Normal Expression.  His Mustache was long and wilted.  Also the Weary Look around the Eyes.  He traveled with a Cowhide Bag that must have used up at least one Cow.  The Clothes he wore evidently had been cut from a Steamer Rug by his Mother, or some other Aged Relative suffering from Astigmatism.  He had been Sleeping in them.

As for the Second Traveler, he was an Advance Agent.

“Cheer Up,” said the Advance Agent to the English Tourist.  “It may not be True, and if it is True it may be for the Best.”

The English Tourist made no Response, fearing that his Fellow-Traveler might be In Trade.

[Illustration:  TOURIST]

Then the One that waited on the Table did the Glide from behind a
Screen.

She was very Pale, up to a certain Point.

Pausing about six feet from the English Tourist she looked resolutely at a Knot-Hole in the Floor and said: 

“Beefsteakliverhamand.”

“My Good Woman,” said the Man from Stoke-on-Tritham, just as if he meant to Prorogue something.  “I should like a Rasher of Bacon, and have it Jolly Well Done.”

“Ain’t got no Bacon,” she replied, feeling of her Brooch.

“Dyuh-me!  Then I should like some Boiled Eggs, and mind that they are Fresh.”

“I’ll give you Regular Aigs,” she said, lifting her Head proudly, for she was no Serf.

“Approach me, Kit,” said the Advance Agent, with gentle Voice.