“Do you call that an insult?”

“Not the job, but the salary.  They offered me twelve dollars a week.”

“Well,” said the friend, “twelve dollars a week is better than nothing.”

“Twelve a week—­thunder!” exclaimed the old scribe.  “I can borrow more than that right here in Detroit.”—­Detroit Free Press.

One winter morning Henry Clay, finding himself in need of money, went to the Riggs Bank and asked for the loan of $250 on his personal note.  He was told that while his credit was perfectly good, it was the inflexible rule of the bank to require an indorser.  The great statesman hunted up Daniel Webster and asked him to indorse the note.

“With pleasure,” said Webster.  “But I need some money myself.  Why not make your note for five hundred, and you and I will split it?”

This they did.  And to-day the note is in the Riggs Bank—­unpaid.

BOSSES

The insurance agent climbed the steps and rang the bell.

“Whom do you wish to see?” asked the careworn person who came to the door.

“I want to see the boss of the house,” replied the insurance agent.  “Are you the boss?”

“No,” meekly returned the man who came to the door; “I’m only the husband of the boss.  Step in, I’ll call the boss.”

The insurance agent took a seat in the hall, and in a short time a tall dignified woman appeared.

“So you want to see the boss?” repeated the woman.  “Well, just step into the kitchen.  This way, please.  Bridget, this gentleman desires to see you.”

“Me th’ boss!” exclaimed Bridget, when the insurance agent asked her the question.  “Indade Oi’m not!  Sure here comes th’ boss now.”

She pointed to a small boy of ten years who was coming toward the house.

“Tell me,” pleaded the insurance agent, when the lad came into the kitchen, “are you the boss of the house?”

“Want to see the boss?” asked the boy.  “Well, you just come with me.”

Wearily the insurance agent climbed up the stairs.  He was ushered into a room on the second floor and guided to the crib of a sleeping baby.

“There!” exclaimed the boy, “that’s the real boss of this house.”

BOSTON

A tourist from the east, visiting an old prospector in his lonely cabin in the hills, commented:  “And yet you seem so cheerful and happy.”  “Yes,” replied the one of the pick and shovel.  “I spent a week in Boston once, and no matter what happens to me now, it seems good luck in comparison.”

A little Boston girl with exquisitely long golden curls and quite an angelic appearance in general, came in from an afternoon walk with her nurse and said to her mother, “Oh, Mamma, a strange woman on the street said to me, ‘My, but ain’t you got beautiful hair!’”

The mother smiled, for the compliment was well merited, but she gasped as the child innocently continued her account: