s; the
marriage license bureau was open only Mondays and Saturdays; the social
columns of the newspapers were abolished. All over the Union young men
were finding time hanging heavy on their hands after business hours
because there was little to do now that every town had its Franchise
Clubs magnificently fitted with every requisite that a rapidly advancing
sex could possibly demand.

The pressure upon the men of the Republic was becoming tremendous; but,
as everybody knows, they held out with a courage worthy, perhaps, of a
better cause, and women were still denied the franchise in the face of
impending national disaster.

But the Central Federation of Amalgamated Females was to deliver a more
deadly blow at man than any yet attempted, a blow that for cruelty and
audacity remains unparalleled in the annals of that restless sex.

As everybody now knows, this terrible policy was to be inaugurated in
secret; a trial was to be made of the idea in New York State; neither
the state nor federal governments had the faintest suspicion of what
impended; not a single newspaper had any inkling.

Even Augustus Melnor, owner and editor of that greatest of New York daily
newspapers, the _Morning Star_, continued to pay overwhelming attention
to his personal appearance, confident that the great feminine revolt was
on its last shapely legs, and that once more womankind would be kind to
any kind of mankind, and flirt and frivol and marry, and provide progeny,
and rock the cradle as in the good old days of yore.

So it happened one raw, windy day in May, Mr. Melnor entered his private
office in the huge _Morning Star_ building, in an unusually cheerful
frame of mind and sent for the city editor, Mr. Trinkle.

"An exceedingly pretty girl smiled at me on my way down town, Trinkle,"
he said exultantly. "That begins to look as though the backbone of this
suffragette strike was broken. What?"

"You've got a dent in your derby; it may have been that," said Mr.
Trinkle.

Mr. Melnor hastily removed his hat and punched out the dent.

"I'm not so sure it was that," he said, flushing up.

Mr. Trinkle gazed gloomily out of the window.

For an hour they talked business; then Mr. Melnor was ready to go.

"How are my nephews getting on?" he asked.

"Something rotten," replied Mr. Trinkle truthfully.

"What's the matter with 'em?"

"Everything--except a talent for business."

"You mean to say they exhibit no aptitude?"

"Not the sli