Now her equipage is lost in the throng and the great actor continues on his way, making a mental note of the fact that he has promised to attend her next Sunday afternoon studio tea.  Near his own stage door he bumps into Commodious Rotunda, the stout comedian of the comic theater, and they pause to swap the latest Lambs’ Club repartee.  This done, Commodius hauls out a press clipping and would read it, but the other remembers providentially that he has a rehearshal on and hurriedly departs.  If there are any press clippings to be read he has a few of his own that will bear inspection.

Superior Maxillary, managing editor of the Pompeiian “Daily News-Courier,” is also abroad, collecting items of interest and subscriptions for his paper, with preference given to the latter.  He enters the Last Chance Saloon down at the foot of the street and in a minute or two is out again, wiping his mustache on the back of his hand.  We may safely opine that he has been taking a small ad. out in trade.

At the door of the county courthouse, where he may intercept the taxpayers as they come and go, is stationed our old friend, Colonel Pro Bono Publico.  The Colonel has been running for something or other ever since Heck was a pup.  To-day he is wearing his official campaign smile, for he is a candidate for county judge, subject to the action of the Republican party at the October primaries.  He is wearing all his lodge buttons and likewise his G. A. R. pin, for this year he figures on carrying the old-soldier vote.

See who comes now!  It is Rigor Mortis, the worthy coroner.  At sight of him the Colonel uplifts his voice in hoarsely jovial salutation: 

“Rigsy, my boy,” he booms, “how are you?  And how is Mrs. M. this morning?”

“Well, Colonel,” answers his friend, “my wife ain’t no better.  She’s mighty puny and complaining.  Sometimes I get to wishing the old lady would get well—­or something!”

The Colonel laughs, but not loudly.  That wheeze was old in 79.  In front of the drug-store on the corner a score of young bloods, dressed in snappy togas for Varsity men, are skylarking.  They are especially brilliant in their flashing interchanges of wit and humor, because the Mastodon Minstrels were here only last week, with a new line of first-part jokes.  Along the opposite side of the street passes Nux Vomica, M.D., with a small black case in his hand, gravely intent on his professional duties.  Being a young physician, he wears a beard and large-rimmed eyeglasses.  Young Ossius Dome sees him and hails him.

“Oh, Doc!” he calls out.  “Come over here a minute.  I’ve got some brand-new limerickii for you.  Tertiary Tonsillitis got ’em from a traveling man he met day before yesterday when he was up in the city laying in his stock of fall and winter armor.”

The healer of ills crosses over; and as the group push themselves in toward a common center I hear the voice of the speaker: