“TOM was beat.”

Undoubtedly TOM was glad when they got through, and although he

    “Went roaring down the street,”

it was a matter of rejoicing with him that he had saved his bacon.  It was impossible to get that out through his hide, and they had no stomach pumps in those days.

* * * * *

Scene.—­A.  City Restaurant.

Waiter, (to customer, who is winding up his repast.) “Anything more, sir?”

Customer.  “H’m—­well—­yes; bring me an omelette souffle.”

Waiter.  “Omelet Shoo-fly, sir?  Yessir.”

(Exit, humming the popular tune.)

* * * * *

Unintentionally Appropriate.

The Sun tells a very large story of its own circulation, and then innocently requests the “False Reporting” Tribune to copy it!

* * * * *

BY GEORGE!

(Continued.)

LAKE GEORGE, Sept 5.

DEAR PUNCHINELLO:—­In my last I promised to finish my trip on the Lake and give you some reliable rumors about the “Rogers’ Slide.”

I am prepared to do this to-day, in a happy and congratulatory frame of mind.

I have had breakfast this morning.

When I say this I mean that I have had this morning’s breakfast this morning.

Any one who has achieved so remarkable a success, at this place, can safely plume himself on his patience and physical endurance.

For instance, this morning, for the first time, I ordered broiled Spring Chicken.

The waiter gave me a disconsolate look and proceeded to gird up his loins with a base ball belt.

In a few moments he dashed past the window in hot pursuit of a fowl of venerable appearance, but of a style of going that would have put to shame any ostrich that Dr. LIVINGSTONE ever saw.

I asked the head waiter if he called that a Spring Chicken?

He said he guessed that chicken could out-Spring any chicken in the place.

This clears up another great hotel mystery.

The man outflanked this gentle birdling on the eighth time round, in 6.23, which is considered very good indeed, and beats the time of the late Harvard and Yale “Foul” considerably.

I say “outflanked,” because it is not the intention of these sunny Amendments to put an end to these feathery Dexters immediately, but to drive them into the ten-pin alley, where they are leisurely bowled to an untimely end.  As, however, pony balls are generally used, and there are always half a dozen darkies standing around ready to bet that the chicken won’t be killed in forty balls, or sixty, as the case may be, this part of the process is rather tedious to the guest

Sometimes, when the chicken is not very active, there are not more than nine or ten-pin feathers left.