Part 4

Everybody was making a great fuss over some girl who is lecturing throughout the country on "Man as Woman Sees Him." Talk about lavish eyes. My boy! my boy! but this dame was there with the swell lamps. A hundred candle power easily. I tried to sit up to her, but there was nothing doing. I might have known I was a dead one. Because why? Because Mr. Percy Harold was talking to her, and he knows all about rare china, real old lace, and such things. When I came up the subject was Du Bois' Messe de Mariage. (Spelling not guaranteed.) I asked about it this morning, Jim. A Messe de Mariage seems to be some kind of a wedding march, and a bishop who is a real hot dog won't issue a certificate unless the band plays the Messe. Mr. Percy Harold kept right on talking about Jack Hayes being so desperately in love with Mrs. Hardy- Steele, and how late they were getting home from the Opera the other night, and what a shame it was, as Mr. Steele seemed like such a nice fellow. There I stood like a Harlem goat. I couldn't cut in, because I have so many troubles of my own getting home from any place at all that I haven't time to keep tab on other people. I must be as slow getting onto a scandal as the injured husband. If 115,000 people know something about a woman, my number is 14,999, and the husband's number is 15,000. It seems strange, but the husband always seems to get wise last.

But to return to the girl with the electric eyes. I hung around in that sad dress suit like a big dub, hoping that the conversation would finally get switched to theaters or dogs or sparring, or something where I could make good, but Mr. Harold had the floor, and he certainly had me looking like a dirty deuce in a new deck. I stood for him till he suddenly exclaimed, "Oh, fudge!" because he had forgotten one of his rings, and there was where I took to the tall timbers. If I were a ring I wouldn't let a guy like that wear me. Now will you kindly tell me why it is that a girl will throw a good fellow down every time for one of those Lizzie boys? If I thought there were enough men in the country who feel as I do, I would start "The American Union for the Suppression of Lizzie Boys."

Well, I decided to get into my class, so I started for the smoking-room. I hadn't gone three feet till some woman held me up, and began telling me how she adored grand opera. I didn't even reply. I flew madly and remained hidden in the tall grasses of the smoking-room until it was time to go home. Jim, should any one ever tell you that grand opera is all right, he is either trying to even up, or he is not a true friend. I was over in New York with the family last winter, and they made me go with them to "Die Walkure" at the Metropolitan Opera House. When I got the tickets I asked the man's advice as to the best location. He said that all true lovers of music occupied the dress circle and balconies, and that he had some good center dress circle seats at three bones per. Here's a tip, Jim. If the box man ever hands you that true lover game, just reach in through the little hole and soak him in the solar for me. It's coming to him. I'll give you my word of honor we were a quarter of a mile from the stage. We went up in an elevator, were shown to our seats, and who was right behind us but my old pal Bud Hathaway from Chicago. Bud had his two sisters with him, and he gave me one sad look which said plainer than words, "So you're up against it, too, eh?" We introduced all hands around, and about nine o'clock the curtain went up. After we had waited fully ten minutes, out came a big, fat, greasy looking Dago with nothing on but a bear robe. He went over to the side of the stage, and sat down on a bum rock. It was plainly to be seen, even from my true lover's seat, that his bearlets was sorer than a dog about something. Presently in came a woman, and none of the true lovers seemed to know who she was. Some said it was Melba, others Nordica. Bud and I decided it was May Irwin. We were mistaken, though, as Irwin has this woman lashed to the mast at any time or place. As soon as Mike the Dago espied the dame it was all off. He rushed, and drove a straight-arm jab, which had it reached would have given him the purse. But Shifty Sadie wasn't there. She ducked, side-stepped, and landed a clever half-arm hook which seemed to stun the big fellow. They clinched, and swayed back and forth, growling continually, while the orchestra played this trembly Eliza-crossing-the-ice music. Jim, I'm not swelling this a bit. On the level, it happened just as I write it. All of a sudden some one seemed to win. They broke away, and ran wildly to the front of the stage with their arms outstretched, yelling to beat three of a kind. The band cut loose something fierce. The leader tore out about $9.00 worth of hair, and acted generally as though he had bats in his belfry. I thought sure the place would be pinched. It reminded me of Thirsty Thornton's dance-hall out in Merrill, Wisconsin, when the Silent Swede used to start a general survival of the fittest every time Mamie the Mink danced twice in succession with the young fellow from Albany, whose father owned the big mill up Rough River. Of course, this audience was perfectly orderly, and showed no intention whatever of cutting in, and there were no chairs or glasses in the air, but I am forced to admit that the opera had Thornton's faded for noise. I asked Bud what the trouble was, and he answered that I could search him. The audience apparently went wild. Everybody said "Simply sublime!" "Isn't it grand?" "Perfectly superb!" "Bravo!" etc., not because they really enjoyed it, but merely because they thought it was the proper thing to do. After that for three solid hours Rough House Mike and Shifty Sadie seemed to be apologizing to the audience for their disgraceful street brawl, which was honestly the only good thing in the show. Along about twelve o'clock I thought I would talk over old times with Bud, but when I turned his way I found my tried and trusty comrade "Asleep at the Switch."

At the finish the woman next to me, who seemed to be on, said that the main lady was dying. After it was too late, Mike seemed kind of sorry. He must have given her the knife, or the drops, because there wasn't a minute that he could look in on her according to the rules. He laid her out on the bum rock, they set off a lot of red fire for some unknown reason, and the curtain dropped at 12:25. Never again for my money. Far be it from me knocking, but any time I want noise I'll take to a boiler shop or a Union Station where I can understand what's coming off. I'm for a good mother show. Do you remember "The White Slave," Jim? Well, that's me. Wasn't it immense where the main lady spurned the leering villain's gold, and exclaimed with flashing eye, "Rags are royal raiment, when worn for virtue's sake." Great!

"The White Slave" has "Die Walkure" beaten to a pulp, and they don't get to you for three cases gate money, either.

Say, Jim, if you ever happen to be hunting around for a real true old sport, don't overlook General Hemingway, last evening's host. When it comes to warm propositions he is certainly the bell cow. They all follow him. He is one of those fat, bald headed old boys who at one time has had the smallpox so badly that he looks as though he had lost a lot of settings out of his face. He hustled for about twenty years, harnessed up a bunch of money, and now his life is one continual crimson sunset. Some people know when they have enough, but when the old general has enough he doesn't know anything. Smoke up! Jim, I didn't get that one myself the first time I heard it. Every time the general gets lit up, he places his arm around your shoulder, puts his face close to yours, blows ashes in your eyes, and tells you confidentially, so that every one in Texas can hear him, that he knew your father when the seat of his trousers was ragged, and he didn't have one dollar to rub against another. I don't mind that so much, but every time he comes to a word with the letter P in it, he spits all over a fellow. Why, the other night he was telling me about our newly acquired Possessions, the Philippines, being a land of Perpetual Plenty, and for a while I thought I was in the natatorium. Under the circumstances I don't know which would be more desirable, a plumber for the general, or a mackintosh for myself.

Yours as ever,

Billy.

P. S.--Jim, you know those little white checks they issue in some bars and you pay at the cashier's desk? Well, one of the boys just telephoned me that he saw Johnny Black a few minutes ago in a down-town place with a beautiful sosh on, and that he was eating his checks because he was broke. He had swallowed five checks amounting to $2.30 before the bartender tumbled. That's a new one on me, and it's all right. My! but that boy Johnny is a sincere drinker.

More Horse Sense

Sometimes you get up in the morning feeling as though you were not expected to live. You know the cause. If you are at home, the first thing to do is to square yourself. Some experts on squaring say that it is best to deny everything, others advise a partial acknowledgment of the facts, together with a solemn promise that it will never occur again. We would respectfully suggest that you try the first; If unsuccessful, spring the second, and if both fail, be a thoroughbred and take it like a man. You probably deserve it, but look at the fun you had the night before singing bass. Remember one thing: don't say you missed the twelve o'clock car, and rather than wait you walked home. You may have arrived in a cab. Wonderful what a noise one small cab can make in the middle of the night. Well, the next thing is your physical condition. Your liver must be got going. Would you rather drink a cold, sparkling, pleasant- tasting R--R--S-- that will produce instant action upon the liver? or would you prefer a water that is warm and sickening, tastes like an Italian tenement looks, and half the time won't stay down? Many a good fellow has his own troubles in the morning trying to find something that will stick. The R--R-- will stick, and what's more, it cools the blood, which naturally relieves the pressure upon the head. For constipation, stomach, and liver troubles, R--R-- has no equal. Being on a sodium phosphate base, it is positively the only liver water on the market to-day. Why subject yourself to probable salivation from poisonous calomel when the R--R-- is absolutely harmless and will give you better results? Keep our goods at your home, and when you are away from home you can get it at any first-class hotel, cafe, or club.

IN LOVE

Pittsburg, Pa., May 1, 1899.

Dear Jim:

So you want to know how a fellow is going to tell positively when he is stuck on a girl, do you? Well, I'll tell you, and I'll tell you mighty quick. If some guy cuts in on your steady, you are going out to her home, and you are going to call her fine and plenty, aren't you? And unless she promises to bump the other fellow, you are going to leave her in a rage, aren't you? Now, if you go back without being sent for, you're it.

Jim, if you can you had better wait for her to break the ice. If you don't, from that time on she will make you look like a white chip. A woman is like one of the big trusts. The instant she acquires a controlling interest in you she becomes a regular ring-master. She will make you jump through, lie down and roll over, walk lame, and play dead; and don't think for a moment you won't do it, either. All the rest of them have. You show me a man who hasn't been up against such a game, and I'll show you a man who lacks experience. A lot of these handsome gazabes go around looking wise, winning girls out, and thinking they are the happy thought. That's because they have had a run of luck and landed in among a bunch of marks. Let them keep it up. It is only a matter of time until they will stumble over a live wire, and then it will be pay-day on the Wabash. It's grand to see a great big slob running along behind some little bit of a girl, a faithful Fido, taking his orders like a politician. I know what I'm talking about, Jim, because I have certainly been the original human dog. I used to think I was the Village Rubber--but not any more. They have made me look like thirty cents not once, but a dozen times. I can gaze into the dim, hazy distance and see where every one of these coy, clever fellows is going to get it, and get it good, and I am glad of it. My hat's off.

Say, Jim, I'm not much for these love stories in the books. They are liable to mislead a fellow. You read how Benton Brockway, the hero, looks into pretty Bessie Bell's blue eyes, places his hand on her shapely shoulder, and tells her how he loves her. Even her downcast eye doesn't hide the pearly tear as she answers "Yes." Now, I can look into their eyes for four hours, and I can tell them how I love them till I am black in the face, and they seem to like it; but whenever I come to the laying of the hand on the shapely shoulder part, it's all off. I am told that I am no gentleman, and to roll my hoop out of that house forever. What's a fellow going to do? You can never tell whether a girl is really sore or whether she is stalling. A girl might be for a fellow strong, and yet she wouldn't admit it for a thousand dollars. There may be some things I wouldn't admit for a thousand, but I don't just recall them at the present time. It only goes to show that things are not always what they seem. Many a girl wears a sailor hat who doesn't own a yacht.

Just to show you what a chance a man has nowadays: The other night I went out to see a certain girl. Won't mention any names. Never do, sober. She made what she called a Robert E. Lee punch out of apple brandy and stuff. Well, sir, after I had hit three Robert E. Lees, I could see waving green fields and fruit-laden orchards, and kind-faced old cows standing in silvery streams of water. I couldn't remember of owing a cent, and the drawing-room lamp looked like a flood of golden sunshine. Jim, I have never been against the pipe, because I'm too young, but if it beats the Robert E. Lee punch, I'll have to go after it. I took one more dipper of Robert E. Lee, and then I decided that any girl who could make that kind of a mix could have me for better or for worse; and if I didn't propose right there I'll eat your hat. I told her that I had loved her madly for months, but had never found the courage to say so till that night. I also mentioned the fact that even if she was very small and I was large, and even if the people in the church would say we looked like Rhode Island and Texas marching out together, that it made no difference where true love was concerned. I finished it all up with a look that would have melted the heart of a bank dealer. My work must have been a little to the sandpaper, or I may have backed up kind of foolish like, or something. Whatever it was, she answered, "Billy, your brother's hair is a good deal darker than yours, isn't it?" Now, what do you think of that frosty-hearted fairy? Literally forced me to drink that punch, gets me ripened up, and then throws the hooks into me. As a love-maker I guess I am a shine. Jim, have you ever gone home late at night and told yourself in front of the mirror how you loved some girl? and have you ever seen that same girl walking along the street the next day with another fellow, and the instant you discovered them, did a great big lump come into your breast? And did you immediately think of a lot of things about the fellow you didn't like, although previously you had rather admired him? Well, that thing you get in your breast is what we experts call the love lump, and you were placing yourself in a position to later on become a kind of Patsy to that girl.

Isn't that love lump all the money, though? It makes a well-developed case of indigestion look like a sunny summer day. When you come to figure it all over, there's nothing to that jealousy thing. I used to be Billy Brighteyes, and sneak out to my regular's home, thinking that perhaps I would catch some one else there. What do I do now? Why, I telephone that I will be out in thirty minutes. What you don't know won't hurt you.

Jim, what has ever become of that girl you were so crazy about a couple of years ago? I guess maybe she didn't put a dent into your heart that a person could drive a four-in-hand into and never touch the sides, a regular Hoosac Tunnel. Then when she had you all ribbed up and done to a turn, she said, "I love Mr. Hawkins and Mr. Hawkins loves me. Good by, Jim; take care of yourself." You couldn't have gotten a better jolt on the B. & 0. You will pardon my suppressed merriment, but that girl certainly made you look like a trailer. Never mind, Jim, old pal, we have all had a crimp put into us at one time or another, and if you work hard and observe good hours you'll get over it in four or five years. It's nothing at all.

I have often thought I would land a girl with coin, blow business, and sit around for a while. It would be great to have your own hearthstone with a couple of registered St. Bernard's lying around, and here and there a golden-haired darling romping and playing with a bottle of paregoric. But somehow or other I always fall down. Now, take that Katherine Clark, who has been visiting the Hemingways for the past month. When she first came I said to myself, "Billy, my boy, here's your chance; break in and cop out an heiress." So I sicked myself on to her. Well, you know I'm not a piker. I went after her right. Eats, drinks, shows, and all the expensive things. I touched Johnny Black's brother-in-law for fifty, and gave an informal luncheon that was a pippin. I wore my New York Central shirt with the four stripes, and we had wine with cobwebs. There wasn't a thing served that any one could pronounce, and Johnny Black got loaded and told us on the quiet why his sister had left her husband. I insulted Johnny by making some remark about his joining the Tell Club, and altogether everything was a big success. The check came to $44.60, and I flashed Johnny's brother-in-law's fifty. When the waiter brought the five-forty change I waved him away as though the Standard Oil Company was the smallest thing I owned. The tip was out that old man Clark was black with money, and if it's so I know why. He is tight-ribbed and popcorn. Down in George's Place the other day I asked the old man what he was going to drink, and he said he would rather have the money. And say, he gave me a cigar that looked as though it had some skin trouble, and smelled like some one was shoeing a horse. However, a fellow doesn't always have to live with the bride's parents. Jim, this girl was a dream. Tailor-made, cloak-model form, city-broke, kind, and sound. She could just naturally beat the works out of a piano; and talk about your swell valves. Why, the other night she sang "A Sailor's Life's the Life for Me" so realistically that Johnny Black got seasick. Well, to make a long story short, this morning I got an invitation to Katherine Clark's wedding. Jim, did you ever have a fellow come up behind you and smear you back of the ear when you weren't looking? Well, that's exactly how that invitation felt. She is going to marry some lobster out in St. Louis, and I'll bet he is a pup, and is marrying her for her money. I figured it up on the back of the invitation, and that lady sent me along for just two hundred and ten dollars, not counting what I owe Johnny Black's brother-in-law; and the best I get is a "come to the church." Of course you will say I'm stung again, and that some one should lead me out to the end of the Chicago Crib and push me into the lake, and all that sort of rot; but hang it all, Jim, if I could get that girl I would take her if she didn't have a cent. I guess I'll light my p1pe.

Yours as ever,

Billy.

P. S.--"Good by, Jim; take care of yourself."

More Horse Sense Have you ever sat on the edge of the bed in the morning with your elbows on your knees, your head buried in your hands, and wondered if there was anything you overlooked the night before that would have made you feel worse? Among the more polite, this feeling is spoken of as the realization of indiscretion in diet; but we plain people call it old Colonel R. E. Morse. There are lots of things that will give you a Colonel, but a R--R--S-- is the only thing that will make you feel like a person with a future instead of a person with a past. You must cleanse your liver, and that's all there is to it. Here's the proposition: Say there were two glasses of aperient water standing on a table. One was muddy- looking, bad-tasting, warm, and flat, and wouldn't touch your liver. The other was clear, pleasant-tasting, cold, and sparkling, and acted instantly upon your liver. Which would you take? Inasmuch as our circulation is confined entirely to the most intelligent, all we ask is, that you give this proposition one moment of your thought. The immense sale of R--R--S-- proves beyond a doubt that the American people are thoroughly disgusted with vile-tasting foreign bitter waters, and were merely awaiting the advent of something new and sparkling, like R--R--.

IN NEW YORK

Preface

"In New York" is the last of the Baxter Letters for the present. We think it well to stop before we get bad. We make but one claim for distinction--the largest circulation America has ever seen or heard of. The people, up to date, have actually demanded over three and a half million copies, or nearly five car-loads of our little books, and there is no telling where it will stop. We have Robinson Crusoe backed clear off his island, and Uncle Tom's Cabin burned to the ground. Still it would have been a different story had we asked a dollar apiece for our books; so we are not so much after all.