One Way Out Of It

A short man with red whiskers and shamblinK gate wandered into the ándito rium last eveuing and asked for a typewriters' studio. He lives in Indiana, not a million miles from Chicago, and has been there attendlng the races. Luck had walked on the same side of the street with him, and he vranted to stay another week. But his wife expected him home today, so he was in learoh of a typewriter to send home a letter to serve as an apology íor his íionappearance. ''Chicago, this date, '91," he muttered to the typewritist. "I 'have that." "Jly dear wife." "Ves." "Yery important business will require my presence in Sheboygan íor a few days" "Let's see," interrupted the artist, "how do yon spell that Sheboygan f " "Spell it yourself. lt?s your own typewriter." "Ican't." "Can't spell Cheboygan?" he asked with disgust. "Na"