ighty-Two Cents."

MORAL: Fiction is stranger than Truth.

THE OLD-FASHIONED PROSECUTOR

One morning a great Judge, who had been promoted to the Bench because
he could not connect as a Lawyer, climbed up on his Perch and directed
the Lord High Sheriff to feed him a few Defendants.

"We have rounded up a tough bunch of Ginks," said the Attorney for the
Commonwealth. "I shall ask your Honor to Soak them good and proper."

The first to be led in was a grinning Imp with a wide Mouth, large
Freckles and flapping Ears.

It was proven that he stuck Pins into his Grandmother and blew up
Elderly Gentlemen with Cannon Crackers and set fire to Houses and was
a hard Nut in general. The Prosecutor suggested a Dungeon with Bread
and Water.

Up spoke the Prisoner as follows: "I defy you to lay a Hand on me. I
am the Stand-By of the Comic Artist and the Star Attraction of the
Colored Supplement. When I pull the Step-Ladder from under some
Honest Workingman, causing him to break his Leg, or hit a Stout Lady in
the Eye with a Brick, please remember that I am bringing Sunshine into
thousands of Homes. As I go on my way, committing Arson, Mayhem, and
Assault, with Intent to Kill, I am greeted by Peals of Childish
Laughter. When you put me out of Business, you will be handing the
Circulation an awful Wallop. I am not a Criminal; I am an Institution."

"I remember you very well," said the Judge. "You are my Excuse for
buying the Paper. While the Kids are busy with you, I look up Packey
McFarland and One-Round Hogan."

Just as the Celebrated Juvenile hit the Fresh Air the second Defendant
came into The Dock, taking long sneaky Strides and undulating like a
Roller Coaster. She was a tall Gal and very Pale, with Belladonna
Optics and her Hair shook out and a fine rhythmical Bellows Movement
above the Belt Line.

"She is a raving Beetle," explained the Prosecutor. "She wants to go
out doors every Night and count the Moon and pull some of that shine
Magazine Poetry. Every time she sees anybody named Eric or Geoffrey
she does a Swoon, accompanied by the customary Low Cry, and later on,
in her own Boudoir, which is Richly Furnished, she bursts into a
Torrent of Weeping. If you start her on a Conversation about Griddle
Cakes she will wind up by giving a Diagnosis of Soul-Hunger. She is
a Candidate for Padded Cell No. 1 in the big Foolish House. If she
continues at Large she may accidentally marry some poor misguided
C