THE TROUBLES OF MR JONES.

Lake Wakatip Mail, Issue 2169, 13 August 1897, Page 3

THE TROUBLES OF MR JONES.

Jones' wrath was on the rise. The leavening process had begun with a toothache at about 3 o'clock in the morning. During the diversion of walking the floor he had stepped on the business end of a tack, knocked the globe off the gas light and-spilled the last drop of toothache medicine in trying to rescue it. About 5 in the morning he fell asleep again, and several hours later awoke with a start.

"Great heavens! Half-past 8, and I had an engagement at the office at 9 o'clock! Mary, what on earth did you let me steep so long for?" he roared to his wife, but Mary wasn't within hearing distance. Jones got up with a bound, landed on the foot that had lately been invaded by the tack, and was instantly deluged with horrible recollections of the night. His temper already registered a high degree of heat, when he rushed to the speaking tube and blew a blast that almost knocked out the whistle. "Mary!" he yelled, "where are you?" "Here I am, in the kitchen, dear." "What on earth did you let me oversleep for?" "Because, dear, breakfast will be a little late. The cook seems to have left." "The cook gone!" roared Jones, thinking of his prospective breakfast. "Well, if that doesn't fit in with my luck!" The first thing Jones saw when he went back into his dressing room was a two-days' growth of whiskers. He, of course, started in to make preparations for sweeping them off. "Not a drop of hot water," he yelled, turning on the faucet, and he was about to balance the deficit with a few mild oaths, when Mrs Jones appeared in the door. "I don't see why I wasn't born without whiskers," lie grumbled. "Why, you were, dear," put in his wife demurely. Jones lost the point in a chase for a collar button and soon appeared, in a very ruffled mood, at the breakfast table. "Well, Mary," said he, looking at the chops, "you'd better pound up this meat and use it for tooth powder—it's burned to charcoal! And there's butter enough on those potatoes to grease all the wheels in town. W r hat do you call those things over there—cakes?" said he, spearing several with a fork. "They look as if they'd been punched out of tin plate with a biscuit cutter! Great heaven?! Such fodder, Mary. How do you expect me to eat it?" "It's good enough for bears," answered his disheartened wife, "and if it is bad to eat. it's a good deal worse to cook it. I didn't marry you to do the servants' work, anyhow." And with a haughty toss of her head she left the table. Jones then turned to read this morning's mail. "How's this—sso for remodeling sealskin coats," he said to himself. "Mary." he yelled, "have you had your coat made over?"

"Why, certainly," she answered. "Didn't I buy you a new sealskin cape this winter?"

"Certainly," said she disdainfully,"but I had to have my coat, too."

"Fifty dollars." sighed Jones. "Well, if that isn't enough to make a man swear!"

"Just read it five, dear." called out his wife. "A cipher is nothing, you know."

Jones then opened a gas bill, upon which he dropped so many sparks of indignation that an explosion of temper was the result. So grabbing his hat. he banged the door behind him and started on his way to his place of business. He got to the corner just in time to miss a car, and was decorating the atmosphere the conventional hue, when a friend joined him to wait for the next car.

"Why. I thought you'd gone to Europe." His friend seemed suddenly to have been infected with the depression of Jones' mood.

"Well, I was going." he said, sullenly, "but I had an accident."

"You did, eh," rejoined Jones, Mechanically, for it made no difference to him. "Yes," continued his friend, "I drew out S2OOO in bills and was counting it over the night before I was to start. I was sitting in front of the grate, and had it spread out on my knee.when some idiot opened the outside door, and the draft blew the whole wad into the fire before I had time to think what had happened." " Humph." growled Jones. " Hard luck."

"Yes, I thought so." Just then the car passed the smouldering remains of a big fire. "What's the matter here?" said Jones, interested for the first time.

"Why, fire, of course. Haven't you heard of it? The morning papers are full of it. Place been burning all night. Big loss, too. Insurance ran out a week ago and hadn't been renewed. Poor Parsons is bankrupt. How's that for luck?"

It was just beginning to dawn on Jones that he was not the only man in the world who bad troubles of his own, when he arrived at his office. He hadn't been there long, when a man came in hurriedly, and asked if he had disposed of a certain piece of property. "No," said Jones, regretfully, "I was to have sold it this morning at 0, but I was late for the engagement, and missed my man.""

"Well, I'm glad of that." said the other man. "I want that piece of land, and will give you SBOOO for it. Is it a bargain?" Jones felt himself swelling up with the satisfaction that goes along with a lucky strike. Was it a bargain! Well, rather, for him. Had he met his deplored 9 o'clock engagement it would have been sold for S2OOO less.

The change that Jones' disposition suddenly underwent was a wonder. He had now worked back to the pristine state of good humor for which he was noted among his friends, and immediately began to try hard to persuade himself that he had not been obnoxious to everybody for the last few hours. But the only way he could do so seemed to be by way of a little practical aid. He began by beaming on the office force in so lavish and uncalled for a manner they they all began to wonder what was up. He tipped the elevator boy, without any cause for doing so, and suggested an extra vacation on full pay to his book-keeper--mueh to that gentleman's surprise—who accepted, however, without inquiring into the cause. Then after considerable skirmishing with bells and 'phones, ho called the office boy, and told him to deliver this not' 1 : "My Darling Wife—l send you three dozen jack ros.'s. and tickets for tlv> opera. Meet me at the box office at 8 o'clock.—Yours devotedly. WALTER JONES." ''Detroit Free Press."