Pittsburg, Pa., Feb. 1, 1899.
Dear Jim:
There is no new scandal worth mentioning. What I started to write
you about was Hemingway's duplicate whist party which was pulled
off last night. I had a bid, and as there was nothing else stirring,
I put on that boy's size dress suit of mine, and blew out there.
Jim, you know the signs you see on the dummies in front of these
little Yiddisher stores, "Take me home for $io.98," or "I used
to be $6.21, now I'm yours for $3.39." Well, that's your Uncle
Bill in a dress suit. Every one takes me for a waiter.
I have just been thinking this society push over, and I have
come to the conclusion that an active leader in society has more
troubles than a man in the wheat pit, and a man in the wheat pit
is long on troubles about as often as he is on wheat. If you don't
believe it, ask Joe Leiter. He was long on both at the same time.
Take the woman who uses fair English and has coin, and let her
display the same good cold judgment that has made her husband
successful in business, and some rainy Thursday morning the four
hundred will wake up and find a new member has joined the order.
While she is on her way she'll get many a frost, but after she
lands she'll even up on the other candidates.
I have heard it said that locomotive engineers as a rule suffer
from kidney troubles, caused by the jolting and bumping of the
engine. If jolts and bumps go for anything, some of these people
who are trying to break into society must have Bright's Disease
something grievous.
Jim, if you have never been to a duplicate whist party, see some
of those people play whist and then order your shroud. Last night
for a partner I drew an old girl who was a Colonial Dame because
her ancestors on both sides had worked on the Old Colony Railroad.
She must have taken a foolish powder or something, just before she
left home, as she was clean to the bad. She had to be called five
minutes before each play, and the way she trumped my ace the first
time around was enough to drive a person dippy. Once she mentioned
her husband's diamond-studded airship. Poor old lady! Probably took
a double dose by mistake. How careless!
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
_P_ossessions, the _P_hilippines, being a land of _P_erpetual
_P_lenty, 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.