ly; any number of theatrical managers who mistake
gloom for amusement; three or four smirking matinee idols, whose
talents are measured by the fit of their clothes, the length of their
hair, and their ability to spit supernumeraries with a tin sword;
cab-drivers who had overcharged me; insolent railway officials; the
New York Central Tunnel--indeed, the completed list stretches on to
such proportions that it would require more pages than this book
contains to present them in detail. I even thought of including
Hippopopolis in the list, but when I realized that it was entirely
owing to his villany that I had enjoyed the delightful privilege of
visiting the gods in their own abode, I spared him. And to think that
because of an unintentional error this great opportunity to rid the
world, and incidentally myself, of much that is vexatious was wholly
lost is a matter of sincere grief to myself.

It happened in this way: Hardly had I returned to my delightful
apartment at the hotel, when a messenger arrived bearing a superbly
engraved command from Jupiter to dine with himself and Juno _en
famille_. It was a kind, courteous, and friendly note, utterly devoid
of formality, and we were to spend the evening at cards. Jupiter had
indicated in the afternoon that he would like to learn bridge, and,
inasmuch as I never travel anywhere without a text-book upon that
fascinating subject, I had volunteered to teach him. The dinner was
given largely to enable me to do this, and, moreover, Jupiter was
quite anxious to have me meet his family, and promised me that before
the evening was over I should hear some music from the lyre of Apollo,
meet all the muses, and enjoy a chafing-dish snack prepared by the
fair hand of Juno herself.

"I'll have Polyphemus up to give us a few coon songs if you like
them," he added, "and altogether I can promise you a delightful
evening. We drop all our state at these affairs, and I know you'll
enjoy yourself."

"I shall feel a trifle embarrassed in the presence of so many gods and
goddesses, I am afraid," I put in.

"I'll fix you out as to that," Jupiter replied. "I'll change you for
the time being into a god yourself, if you wish."

I laughed at the idea.

"A high old god I'd make," said I.

"You'd pass," he observed, quietly. "I'll call you Pencillius, god of
Chirography--or would you rather come as Nonsensius, the newly
discovered deity of Jocosity?"

"I think I'd rather be Zero, god of Nit," s