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“We never permit him to go out in winter,” narrate Hon. Mrs.

“I shall watch see he do not escape,” I promus with Wm. Jerome eyebrows.

Annexed to Hon. Furnace were a slight clock with one finger going around like taxicabs. “This are the steam gag,” explan Hon. Mrs. “He are now pointing 23.”

“Do that tell age of Hon. Furnace?” I require educationally.

“No, not!” she snagger. “That indikate the number lbs. steam in boiler. You must be careful about that. If Hon. Steam Gag jump above 25 lbs. that will mean Hon. Furnace have got too much steam on his brain and might blow up with Harry Thaw noise. When Hon. Steam Gag get too ambitious, Oh, cool Hon. Furnace with immediate quickness before explode up!”

“A Samurai janitor fears no steam!” I reject proudishly, while folding my elbows over coal shovel.

Mr. Editor, I did not stoke long in this situation of work, but I make very pleasant impression of it. Although I enjoy thumb-scorch, ash-eye, and janitorial pain of spine, yet I commence to love Hon. Furnace for his characteristic. I begin to dishcover he are like Hon. Beethoven, famus piano-player—he got red-hot soul inside his homely face. It were pleasant to watch him eat $8 worth very hard coal and purr from sweet digestion. It are nice to be healthy. He seem to contain no meanness. When I close his mouth with shovel he forgive that impoliteness. He love to have me comb his ashes with poker.