by boastful mankind in the direction of weather control.

And then the strange thing happened which it is my purpose and pride
to relate. A taxi drew up beside me and I was hailed by its occupant.
In a novel the hailing voice would be that of a lady or a Caliph
_incog._, and it would lure me to adventure or romance. But this was
desperately real damp beastly normal life, and the speaker was merely
a man like myself.

"Hullo!" he said, calling me by name, and following the salutation by
the most grateful and comforting words that the human tongue could at
that moment utter.

Every one has seen the Confession Albums, where complacent or polite
visitors are asked to state what in their opinion is the most
beautiful this and that and the other, always including "the most
beautiful form of words." Serious people quote from DANTE or KEATS or
SHAKSPEARE; flippant persons write "Not guilty" or "Will you have it
in notes or cash?" or "This way to the exit." Henceforth I shall be in
no doubt as to my own reply. I shall set down the words used by this
amazing god in the machine, this prince among all princely bolts from
the blue. "Hullo," he said, "let me give you a lift."

I could have sobbed with joy as I entered the cab--perhaps I did sob
with joy--and heard him telling the driver the number in Harley Street
for which I was bound.

That is the story--true and rare. How could I refrain from telling
it when impulsive benevolence and public virtue are so rare? It was
my duty.

* * * * *

[Illustration: MODERN INVENTION APPLIED TO THE CLASSICS. _Damacles
(under the hanging sword, to his host)._ "DELIGHTFUL WEATHER WE'RE
HAVING FOR THE TIME OF YEAR--WHAT?"]

* * * * *

BOOK-BOOMING.

(_WITH GRATEFUL ACKNOWLEDGMENTS TO THE LEADING MASTERS OF THIS
DELECTABLE ART._)

Messrs. Puffington and Co. beg to announce the immediate issue of
_Charity Blueblood_, by Faith Redfern. Speaking _ex cathedra_, with a
full consciousness of their responsibilities, they have no hesitation
in pronouncing their assured conviction that this novel will take its
place above all the classics of fiction.

Here is not only a Thing of Beauty, but a Joy for Ever, wrought
by elfin fingers, fashioned of gossamer threads at once fine and
prehensile. Yet so Gargantuan and Goliardic that the reader holds his
breath, lest the whole beatific caboodle should vanish into thin air
and leave him la