[Illustration:  AFFECTIONATE MASSAGE]

This Young Man buried the Dead Past until his Memory was a Blank for the whole Period up to the Time that the President of the Fidelity National invited him to Dinner and he got his first Peek at a sure-enough Butler.

He had been a Genuine Aristocrat for about Eighteen Months, when he made a Mis-step and landed with his Face in the Gravel.  The Gigantic Enterprise which he had been Promoting got into the Public Prints as a Pipe Dream.  There was no more Capital coming from the Angels.  He was back at the Post, with nothing to Show for his Bold Dash except a Wardrobe and an Appetite for French Cooking.  Society gave him the Frozen Face, and all those who had been speaking of him as a Young Napoleon agreed that he was a Dub.  The Banks were trying to Collect on a lot of Slow Notes that he had floated in his Palmy Days, and they had a Proud Chance to Collect.  He went into the Bankruptcy Court and Scheduled $73,000 of Liabilities, the Assets being a Hat-Box and a Set of Theatrical Posters.

When he had to go out and Rustle for a Job he was a Busy Hand-Shaker once more.  The Blow seemed to have landed right on the Bump of Memory, and put his Recollecting Department into full Operation again.  He could spot an Old Pal clear across the Street.  He was rushing up to Obscure Characters that he had not seen in Eight Years, and he called each one of them “Old Man.”  It was now their Turn to do the Forgetful Business.  The Tablets of his Memory read as clear as Type-Writing.  Upon meeting any Friend of his Boyhood he did the Shoulder-Slap, and rang in the Auld Lang Syne Gag.  He was so Democratic he was ready to Borrow from the Humblest.  The same Acquaintances who had tried to Stand In with him when Things were coming his Way, were cutting off Street-Corners and getting down behind their Newspapers to escape the Affectionate Massage, beginning at the Hand and extending to the Shoulder-Blade.  It was No Use.  He remembered them all, and no one got Past him.

MORAL:  Don’t begin to Forget until you have it in Government Bonds.

THE FABLE OF THE HE-GOSSIP AND THE MAN’S WIFE AND THE MAN

Once upon a time there was a He-Gossip named Cyrenius Bizzy.  Mr. Bizzy was Middle-Aged and had a Set of dark Chinchillas.  He carried a Gold-Headed Cane on Sunday.  His Job on this Earth was to put on a pair of Pneumatic Sneakers every Morning and go out and Investigate Other People’s Affairs.

He called himself a Reformer, and he did all his Sleuthing in the line of Duty.

If he heard of a Married Man going out Cab-Riding after Hours or playing Hearts for Ten Cents a Heart or putting a Strange Woman on the Car, he knew it was his Duty to edge around and slip the Information to some one who would carry it to the Wife.  He was such a Good Man himself that he wanted all the other Men to wear long sable Belshazzars on the Sub-Maxillary and come to him for Moral Guidance.  If they would not do it, the only Thing left for him to do was to Warn their Families now and then and get them into Hot Water, thus demonstrating that the Transgressor must expect Retribution to fall on him with quite a Crash.