But as the
pussies purr in good-fellowship together, you will hear them ask each
other (if you can understand the cat language), "Are you going to the
club this evening?" and "Shall I see you at the 'show' next fall?"

JOYS OF THE STEAMSHIP HUNT.

BY WILLIAM HEMMINGWAY.

The sport of steamship-hunting is the finest I ever enjoyed. It has more
excitement in it than any other I have ever heard of. If you catch your
ship properly you are happier than the slayer of many lions; if you
don't catch her--well, there are some possibilities too shiverish to
think about.

Of course the kind of steamship-hunting I mean is the game instituted by
the big newspapers in such a case as that of _La Gascogne_, when
recently she was eleven days overdue from Havre because one of her
piston-heads broke down. This game is played with a tug-boat, a full
equipment of night-glasses, and a great amount of patience. Just think
of how important the results are! Within the circuit of New York,
Boston, Buffalo, and Washington--the territory wherein New York
newspapers are chiefly taken--there are at least ten millions of
readers, all anxious for every scrap of news of the missing ship.
Hundreds of these people have friends or relatives on board, but every
one of the vast number is equally eager to hear of the ship's safe
arrival, and all about the reason for her lateness.

If the lion-hunter's rifle misses fire he loses his life, but if the
steamship-hunter misses his game he loses most of his good name and all
of his employment. Imagine, then, the studious skill he devotes to
sweeping the wide field of ocean with his glasses. He knows that half a
dozen other tug-loads of reporters are out on the same errand, and that
if any of them "beat" him he'd better sail right down into Davy Jones's
locker and lock it from the inside.

The tug of a New York paper went down to the Quarantine Station at
Staten Island on that very cold Friday evening three days before _La
Gascogne_ was heard from. She was then eight days overdue. Three
reporters and an artist were aboard the tug. They called at the
telegraph office at Quarantine, and learned that nothing had been heard
of the French ship from Sandy Hook or Fire Island. The only thing to do
was to go down to the entrance of the Harbor and wait and
hope--especially hope. Just before the steamship-hunters left the snug
warm telegraph office the instruments began to sputter. The operator in
the Sandy