The logical contender for Jack Dempsey’s championship honours has been discovered; and, in an age where women are stealing men’s jobs all the time, it will not come as a surprise to our readers to learn that she belongs to the sex that is more deadly than the male.  Her name is Miss Pauline Preston, and her wallop is vouched for under oath—­under many oaths—­by Mr. Timothy O’Neill, known to his intimates as Pie-Face, who holds down the arduous job of detective at the Hotel Cosmopolis.

At three o’clock this morning, Mr. O’Neill was advised by the night-clerk that the occupants of every room within earshot of number 618 had ’phoned the desk to complain of a disturbance, a noise, a vocal uproar proceeding from the room mentioned.  Thither, therefore, marched Mr. O’Neill, his face full of cheese-sandwich, (for he had been indulging in an early breakfast or a late supper) and his heart of devotion to duty.  He found there the Misses Pauline Preston and “Bobbie” St. Clair, of the personnel of the chorus of the Frivolities, entertaining a few friends of either sex.  A pleasant time was being had by all, and at the moment of Mr. O’Neill’s entry the entire strength of the company was rendering with considerable emphasis that touching ballad, “There’s a Place For Me In Heaven, For My Baby-Boy Is There.”

The able and efficient officer at once suggested that there was a place for them in the street and the patrol-wagon was there; and, being a man of action as well as words, proceeded to gather up an armful of assorted guests as a preliminary to a personally-conducted tour onto the cold night.  It was at this point that Miss Preston stepped into the limelight.  Mr. O’Neill contends that she hit him with a brick, an iron casing, and the Singer Building.  Be that as it may, her efforts were sufficiently able to induce him to retire for reinforcements, which, arriving, arrested the supper-party regardless of age or sex.

At the police-court this morning Miss Preston maintained that she and her friends were merely having a quiet home-evening and that Mr. O’Neill was no gentleman.  The male guests gave their names respectively as Woodrow Wilson, David Lloyd-George, and William J. Bryan.  These, however, are believed to be incorrect.  But the moral is, if you want excitement rather than sleep, stay at the Hotel Cosmopolis.

Bill may have quaked inwardly as he listened to this epic but outwardly he was unmoved.

“Well,” he said, “what about it?”

“What about it!” said Lucille.

“What about it!” said Archie.  “Why, my dear old friend, it simply means that all the time we’ve been putting in making your personality winning has been chucked away.  Absolutely a dead loss!  We might just as well have read a manual on how to knit sweaters.”

“I don’t see it,” maintained Bill, stoutly.

Lucille turned apologetically to her husband.

“You mustn’t judge me by him, Archie, darling.  This sort of thing doesn’t run in the family.-We are supposed to be rather bright on the whole.  But poor Bill was dropped by his nurse when he was a baby, and fell on his head.”