And still, old Haroun had some advantages as an eleemosynarian.  He took around with him on his rambles his vizier, Giafar (a vizier is a composite of a chauffeur, a secretary of state, and a night-and-day bank), and old Uncle Mesrour, his executioner, who toted a snickersnee.  With this entourage a caliphing tour could hardly fail to be successful.  Have you noticed lately any newspaper articles headed, “What Shall We Do With Our Ex-Presidents?” Well, now, suppose that Mr. Carnegie could engage him and Joe Gans to go about assisting in the distribution of free libraries?  Do you suppose any town would have had the hardihood to refuse one?  That caliphalous combination would cause two libraries to grow where there had been only one set of E. P. Roe’s works before.

But, as I said, the money-caliphs are handicapped.  They have the idea that earth has no sorrow that dough cannot heal; and they rely upon it solely.  Al Raschid administered justice, rewarding the deserving, and punished whomsoever he disliked on the spot.  He was the originator of the short-story contest.  Whenever he succoured any chance pick-up in the bazaars he always made the succouree tell the sad story of his life.  If the narrative lacked construction, style, and esprit he commanded his vizier to dole him out a couple of thousand ten-dollar notes of the First National Bank of the Bosphorus, or else gave him a soft job as Keeper of the Bird Seed for the Bulbuls in the Imperial Gardens.  If the story was a cracker-jack, he had Mesrour, the executioner, whack off his head.  The report that Haroun Al Raschid is yet alive and is editing the magazine that your grandmother used to subscribe for lacks confirmation.

And now follows the Story of the Millionaire, the Inefficacious Increment, and the Babes Drawn from the Wood.

Young Howard Pilkins, the millionaire, got his money ornithologically.  He was a shrewd judge of storks, and got in on the ground floor at the residence of his immediate ancestors, the Pilkins Brewing Company.  For his mother was a partner in the business.  Finally old man Pilkins died from a torpid liver, and then Mrs. Pilkins died from worry on account of torpid delivery-waggons—­and there you have young Howard Pilkins with 4,000,000; and a good fellow at that.  He was an agreeable, modestly arrogant young man, who implicitly believed that money could buy anything that the world had to offer.  And Bagdad-on-the-Subway for a long time did everything possible to encourage his belief.

But the Rat-trap caught him at last; he heard the spring snap, and found his heart in a wire cage regarding a piece of cheese whose other name was Alice von der Ruysling.

The Von der Ruyslings still live in that little square about which so much has been said, and in which so little has been done.  To-day you hear of Mr. Tilden’s underground passage, and you hear Mr. Gould’s elevated passage, and that about ends the noise in the world made by Gramercy Square.  But once it was different.  The Von der Ruyslings live there yet, and they received the first key ever made to Gramercy Park.