THE MISSING INK

It is becoming more and more obvious that Horatio Alger was born long before his time. This ingenious concocter of a better class of dime novels furnished vicarious thrills by mere inherited dukedoms and paltry thousands of dollars--and no doubt shuddered to think what an exaggerator he was. But the Luke Larkins of his fiction are simply run off their feet by the financial leaders of this day.

Mike Meehan, once engaged in selling tickets at a New York theater agency, entered the lists this week in the field where Morgan, Hill, and Harriman have fought their battles; Michael J. Meehan, financial genius, emerged, a trifle dishevelled, but richer by several millions. All this is very pleasant and bewildering for him, but there is a little static in the news of his radio coup. No biographer has stepped forward to pen the life of the wizard. Of course, there are the columns of the press and they have done fairly well, but hurried reporters are not able to do justice to this subject. The spirit of the dead Horatio and the spirit of the living Michael clasp hands, regretfully, almost tearfully. Boswell without Johnson, Johnson without Boswell: fate was kind to Mr. Alger, and is kinder to Mr. Meehan; but it left a vulnerable spot, and for both the times are out of joint.