memory with anecdotes of the fox passes Hershel pulled while a bellhop at the dear old St. Moe. Then one day friend Isaac's bulky form suddenly looms up at the switchboard. Honestly, the boy is a photograph of gloom. He looked fearfully low!
"Greetings," I says pleasantly. "Long time no see—how come?"
"Maybe you seen that lowlife brother of mine, hey?" says Ike mournfully.
"No, I haven't seen Hershel either," I says, telling the truth, "But I read in the paper the other day where Kid Rose was knocked out in one round by somebody or other in Boston. Which one of you boys was that Kid Rose?"
"That vos Hershel," wails Ike. "I ain't vorked in a couple of months on account from that bum! I couldn't get no fights vile he keeps gettin' himself knocked stiff and the promoters think it's me. Honest, for vot I think about that feller they could send me back to Russia! Ven I tell 'em about my brother, they chuckle at me. I vould give a tousand dollars—vell, maybe five hundred dollars—for a idea to make Hershel quit bein' Kid Rose."
I thought this one over for a few minutes while I'm plugging in wrong numbers and Ike tells his troubles to Pete Kift, who happened to saunter along.
"Hello," says Pete to Isaac. "I see where you got
