Part 2

Bud was beginning to see double. Every once in a while he'd stop trying to whistle "Sallie, My Hot Tamale," and he'd look over at Clara Jane and hand her a sad, sad smile.

Then he'd press money in the waiter's hand and wait for his music cue.

Clara Jane had about decided that Bohemia was away up stage, but I wouldn't let go. I wanted her to get the lesson of her life, and that's where my finish began to get busy.

Tom Barclay waltzed into the subway, saw me and in a minute he was making the break of his life.

"Why, hello, John Henry!" said Tom, "say, I saw her to-day--and she's immense! You've got a great eye, old man!"

I tossed off a few wicked winks on that great eye of mine but Tom went right along to the funeral.

"Lizzie B. is a peach, John Henry! You've got the eye for the good girls, all right, all right!" he chortled.

Clara Jane began to freeze.

I felt like a boiled potato in the hands of an Irish policeman.

"She's every bit to the good, old man!" Tom turned it on again; "she makes all the other birds chatter in the cage. And her feet--did you ever see such feet?"

I looked at Clara Jane's face, but there was no light in the window for me.

"You certainly picked out a warm proposition when you put your arms around Lizzie B. and I'm your friend for life for hauling me up in the chariot with you--what'll you have?" croaked Tom.

"Thirty-two bars rest," I whispered hoarsely; "cut it all out!"

"Cut out nothing!" said the prize idiot; "We'll drink to Lizzie B. What'll your lady friend have?"

When Clara Jane arose she was a mass of icicles.

"Mr. John Henry! will you have the kindness to escort me to a car?" she said, giving me the glittering gig-lamps, "then you may return and discuss your affairs of the heart at your leisure."

"Stung!" said Bud, bringing his hand down on the table so vigorously that Ikey woke up and ordered another high-ball.

Me--to the Badlands! It took me three mortal hours to convince her that Tom _was only talking about a horse_.

Hereafter when Clara Jane yearns for something swift I'll take her down and let her watch the trolley cars go by.

JOHN HENRY AND THE HOTEL CLERK.

Kee Barclay, Jim Wilkinson and I were leaning over the counter talking to His Nobs, the Hotel Clerk, when Dan the Dyspeptic squeezed up and began to let a peep out of him about the pie he had eaten for dinner.

"Calm yourself!" said Smiling Steve, "and tell me where it bit you."

Steve has been throwing keys at the wall for some time, and he knows how to burn the beefers.

"Bit me! bit me!" snarled the old chap; "nothing of the kind, sir! I want you to know, sir, that your pie isn't fit to eat, sir!"

"Cut it out!" suggested Steve.

"Cut it out, sir! how can I cut it out when I've eaten it, sir? It's an outrage and I shall leave this hotel to-morrow," said Dan.

"With the exception of $31.72, balance due, that will be about all from you!" said Steve.

"I'll see the proprietor," said the old fellow, moving away with a face on him like an interrupted beef stew.

"We get it good and plenty every day," said Steve, and just then Skate Peters grabbed the book and burned his John Hancock on it.

I knew his name was Skate because it looked like one on the register.

"Bath?" queried Steve.

"Only during a hot wave," said Skate.

Steve went to the ropes, but he came up smiling, as usual.

"American or European?" asked Steve.

"Neither," said Skate; "Don't you see I'm from Jersey City."

"Going to be with us long?" inquired Steve.

"Say, Bub! you're hellanall on asking questions, now aint you?" answered Skate; "you just push me into a stall and lock the gate--I'm tired."

"Front! show this gentleman to 49!" said Skate, side-stepping to avoid punishment.

Then Sweet William, the Boy Drummer, hopped into the ring for the next round.

Willie peddles pickles for the fun he gets of it.

It is Willie's joy and delight to get a ginger ale bun on and recite "'Ostler Joe."

When trained down to 95 flat Willie can get up and beat the clapper off "Curfew Shall Not Ring To-night."

When Willie gets a strangle hold on "Sheridan's Ride" you can hear horses galloping outside.

It's the rest of the community getting out of harm's way.

"Any mail?" inquired Willie.

All the mail that Willie ever gets is a postal card from the pickle factory every two weeks asking him if the people along his route have all lost their appetites.

"No literature for you," Steve answered.

"Strange," said Willie, "my lady friends are very remiss, aren't they?"

"Yes; it looks like they were out to drop you behind the piano," said Steve.

Willie tore off a short rabbit laugh and then inquired what time the next train left for New York.

The pickle factory expects Willie to make Pocomoke City, Squashtown Junction and Nubbinsville before next Sunday, so he tossed the train gag out just to show Steve that he knows there's a place called New York.

"At 7.45 over the D. L. & Q," said Steve.

"What's the next?" inquired Willie.

"At 8.10 over the H. B. & N.," Steve answered.

"Which gets there first?" Willie asked.

"The engineer," sighed Steve.

"Oh, you droll chap!" said the pickle pusher; "give me some toothpicks."

Then Sweet William went over to the big window, burrowed into a chair, stuck his feet up on the brass rail, ate toothpicks and thought he was _IT_.

When I got back to Steve he was dealing out the cards to a lady from Reading, Pa., and Kee and Jim had ducked to the billiard room.

Her husband had been up in the air with a bum automobile and when he came down he was several sections shy.

They found a monkey wrench imbedded in his left shoulder which he couldn't remember using when he tried to fix the machine.

She was traveling for his health.

"My room is too near the elevator," she informed Steve.

"I can give you a very nice room on the third floor--Front! show the lady----"

"Same size room?"

"Yes, Madam."

"Same colored carpet on the floor?"

"I believe it has--Front! show the lady----"

"Southern exposure?"

"Yes, Madam, it's at the end of the hall."

"I want a room near the elevator, that's always the way in these hotels! One can never get just what one wants! At the end of the hall, indeed!" And with this she gave Steve the Society sting with both eyes and flounced out.

Steve bit the end off a pen holder and said the rest internally.

Just then a couple of troupers trailed in.

They were with the "Bandit's Bride Co.," and the way had been long and weary.

"What have you got--double?" asked the villain of the piece.

"Two dollars and up!" said Steve.

"Nothing better?" inquired Low Comedy--he was making a crack but nobody caught him.

"Four dollars, with bath," Steve suggested.

"Board?" asked the villain.

"Nothing but the sleeps and a fresh cake of soap," said Steve.

"Ring down!" Low Comedy put in; "Why, we lived a whole week in Pittsburg for less than that."

"You can turn the same trick here if you carry your own coke and sleep in the Park," said Steve.

"What's the name of this mint?" asked the villain.

Steve told him.

"To the tow-path!" said Barrett Macready; "we're outside the life lines. We thought it was the Liverwurst Hotel where they throw things at your appetite for $1 a day, double. To the left, wheel! Forward, march!" and once more the drama was on its way.

As Low Comedy turned proudly on his heel he threw upon the counter a printed card.

Steve had it framed and glued to the wall next day.

It read as follows.

HOTEL RULES--HELP YOURSELF.

RULE 1.--We cash no checks drawn on Papa. He's a dead one.

RULE 2.--Eat all our booze you want to, but go elsewhere and select your snakes.

RULE 3.--Don't call the waitress by her first name. She's liable to spoil your appetite.

RULE 4.--Guests who desire to have nightmare will find the harness in the restaurant, so back up!

RULE 5.--To prevent guests from carrying fruit from the table we'll have no fruit. We're lucky to have the table.

RULE 6.--If you feel tired, go away back and sit down.

RULE 7.--In case of fire jump out the window and turn to the left.

RULE 8.--Breakfast from 4 to 3; dinner from hand to mouth, and supper from what's left over.

RULE 9.--Hug as many high-balls as you please, but don't wave the red flag in the office--you might disturb Harold Spotwood, the room clerk. He was out late last night.

RULE 10.--If you don't like your room, kick the bell-boy. Apply at the office for spiked shoes.

RULE 11.--If you don't see what you want ask for it and you'll get it--good and hard!

RULE 12.--Ask the bar-keeper to let you have one of our justly celebrated high tides. It will do you good.

RULE 13.--Try our boneless potato salad; apply to the night watchman.

RULE 14.--All the shines are not in the barber shop. Lie down, Fido.

RULE 15.--That will be about all from you.

JOHN HENRY AND THE BENZINE BUGGY.

A cross-country dub named Montrose has been doing the Shine specialty around Clara Jane lately.

He began to call evenings and bring a bunch of ready-grown flowers with him as big as a hay stack.

Then he'd spread around the parlor and tell her how he won the long-distance running jump in the '01 Yale class.

As you approached him from the front the first name you saw was Clarence--Clarence Edgerton Montrose.

Wouldn't that slap you!

I don't think Clara Jane considered him the real kittens, but he could talk fast and use long words and she found him pleasant company.

She said she loved to sit and shade her eyes with the $8 fan I gave her and listen to Clarence Edgerton Montrose while he discoursed about Palestine and the Holy Land.

If he was ever there he went in a hack.

That's the trouble with some of those college come-outs! The Professors beat them over the head with a geography and then as soon as they get a crowd around they begin to go to the places that struck them hardest.

As an honest, hard-working man it was my duty to put the boots to Edgerton and run him down the lane as far as the eye could see.

So I framed up Clarence's finish with much attention to detail.

I looked over Clara Jane's dates ahead and found that Clarence had rented the house for a Wednesday matinee, so I hired one of those horseless carriage things and pulled up in front of the windows just about the time I thought His Feathers would be playing the overture.

I knew that Clara Jane would cancel the contract with the mutt that mixed in just as soon as she saw the automobile snap.

I figured that the picture entitled "The True Lover's Departure in the Dream Wagon" would put a crimp in Clarence about the size of a barn door.

It was my third or fourth time behind the lever of the busy barouche, but I was wise that you pulled the plug this way when you wanted it to go ahead, and you shoved it back when you wanted it to stop.

When it came to benzine buggies I felt that my education was complete.

I was George Gazazza, the real Rolando, when I pulled up in front of my lady friend's front gate.

My market price was $18,000 a square inch.

In six minutes by the watch Clara Jane was down and in the kerosene caravan.

Clarence hadn't arrived.

Somebody must have put him next, but I knew where he lived and I figured it out that after we came back from Lonely Lane I'd send the landau around and around the block he camped in till I made him dizzy.

Clara Jane was the feature of the game.

She was the limit in ladies' dress goods.

For a chaser she wore one of those feather boas that feel cool because they look so warm.

Well, I turned the horseless gag into the shell road and cut loose.

We were doing about 43 miles an hour and the birdies were singing on the way.

Clarence Edgerton Montrose was working in Shaft No. 3, back in the mines--my lady friend told me so.

She was having the time of her life.

I was her candy boy for sure.

Just then something snapped and the machine started for Portland, Maine, on the basis of a mile in eight seconds.

Clara Jane grabbed me around the neck and I grabbed the lever.

"The eccentric has buckled the thingamajig!" I yelled, pushing the lever over to stop the carryall.

The thing gave me the horse laugh, jumped over a telegraph pole, bit its way through a barb-wire fence and then started down the road at the rate of 2,000,000 miles a minute.

"Why don't you stop it?" screamed my lady friend.

"I'll be the goat; what's the answer?" I said, clawing the lever and ducking the low bridges.

We met a man on a bicycle and the last I saw of him as we whizzed by he had found a soft spot in a field about four blocks away and he was going into it head first.

We kept his bicycle and carried it along on our smoke stack.

I couldn't stop the thing to save my life.

Every time I yanked the lever the snap would let a chortle out of its puzzle department and fly 400 feet straight through the air.

We were headed for an old ash heap, and my market price had gone down to three cents a ton.

"Don't jump!" I yelled to my lady friend, but the wind whisked the first half of my sentence away.

Clara Jane gathered her skirts in a bunch and did a flying leap out of the crazy cab.

She landed right in the middle of that heap of fresh ashes--and she made good.

All I could see was a great, gray cloud as I pushed on to the next stand. About half a mile further down the road the machine concluded to turn into a farm-yard and give the home folks a treat.

It went through a window in the barn, out through a skylight, did the hula dance over the lawn, and then fell in the well and stayed there, panting as though its little gas-engine heart would break.

When I limped back to Clara Jane the storm signals were flying.

She was away out on the ice.

The feather boa looked like the hawser on a canal boat, and the ashes had changed the pattern of her dress goods.

We were stingy talkers on the road home.

It will take me two years to square myself.

Hereafter, me to the trolley!

Me to the saucy stage coach when I'm due to gallop away and away!

No more benzine buggies for yours sincerely!

Never again for the bughouse barouche! Not me.

I have only one consolation: The chap we pried off the bicycle was Clarence Edgerton Montrose.

It will take him about three years and two months to find all the spots that foolish-wagon knocked off him.

Meantime, I hope to be Clara Jane's sugar buyer again.

JOHN HENRY AT THE MUSICALE.

Did you ever get ready and go to a _musicale_?

Isn't it the velvet goods?

They pulled off one at Jack Frothingham's last Wednesday evening and I had to walk up and down the aisle with the rest of the bunch.

Mind you, I like Jack, so this is no secret conclave of the Anvil Association.

Only, I wish to put him wise that when he gives his next _musicale_ my address is Forest Avenue, in the woods.

When I reached Jack's house the Burnish Brothers were grabbing groutchy music out of a guitar that didn't want to give up, and the mad revel was on.

The Burnish Brothers part their hair in the middle and always do "The Washington Post" march on their mandolins for an encore.

If Mr. Sousa ever catches them there'll be a couple of shine chord-squeezers away to the bad.

When the Burnish Brothers took a bow and backed off we were all invited to listen to a soprano solo by Miss Imogene Lukewarm.

Somebody went around and locked the doors, so I made up my mind to die game.

A foolish friend once told Imogene she could sing, so she went out and bought up a bunch of tra-la-la's and began to beat them around the parlor.

When Imogene sings she makes faces at herself.

If she needs a high note she goes after like she was calling the dachshund in to dinner.

Imogene sang "Sleep, Sweetly Sleep," and then kept us awake with her voice.

After Imogene crept back to her cave we had the first treat of the evening, and the shock was so sudden it jarred us.

Uncle Mil came out and quivered a violin obligato entitled "The Lost Sheep in the Mountain," and it was all there is.

Uncle Mil was the only green spot in the desert.

When he gathered the gourd up under his chin and allowed the bow to tiptoe over the bridge you could hear the nightingale calling to its mate.

I wanted to get up a petition asking Uncle Mil to play all the evening and make us all happy, but Will Bruce wouldn't let me.

Will said he wasn't feeling very well and he wanted to hear the rest of the program and feel worse.

He got his wish.

The next thing we had was Sybil, the Illusionist.

Sybil did a lot of mouldy tricks with cards and every few minutes she fell down and sprained her sleight of hand.

Sybil was a polish for sure.

Then Swift McGee, the Boy Monologuist, flung himself in the breach and told a bunch of Bixbys.

It was a cruel occasion.

Swift had an idea that when it came to cracking merry booboos he could pull Lew Dockstader off the horse and leave him under the fence.

As a monologuist Swift thought he had George Fuller Golden half way across the bay, and Fred Niblo was screaming for help.

Swift often told himself that he could give Marshall P. Wilder six sure-fires and beat him down to the wire.

Swift is one of those low-foreheads who "write their own stuff" and say "I done it!"

After Swift had talked the audience into a chill, he pushed on and left us with a stone bruise on our memories.

Then we had Rufus Nelson, the parlor prestidigitator.

Rufus was a bad boy.

He cooked an omelet in a silk hat and when he gave the hat back to Ed. Walker the poached eggs fell out and cuddled up in Ed's hair.

Rufus apologized and said he'd do the trick over again if someone else would lend him a hat, but there was nothing doing.

When the contralto crawled under the ropes and began to tell us that the bells in the village rang ding-ding-dong I was busy watching a Goo-goo Bird.

Did you ever spot one of those Glance-Givers?

This chap's name was Llewellyn Joyce, and he considered himself a perfect hellyon.

He thought all he had to do was to roll his lamps at a lassie and she was off the slate.

Llewellyn loved to sit around at the _musicale_ and burn the belle of the ball, with his goo-goo eyes.

Llewellyn needed a swift slap--that's what he needed.

Next we had the Nonpariel Quartette, and they were the boys that could eat up the close harmony!

They sang "Love, I am Lonely!" from start to finish without stopping to call the waiter.

Then we had Clarissa Coldslaw in select recitations.

She was all the money.

Clarissa grabbed "Hamlet's Soliloquy" between her pearly teeth and shook it to death.

She got a half-Nelson on Poe's "Raven" and put it out of the business.

Then she gave an imitation of the balcony scene from Romeo and Juliet.

If Juliet talked like that dame did, no wonder she took poison.

But when she let down her hair and started in to give us a mad scene--me to the sand dunes!

It was a case of flee as a bird with yours respectfully.

Those _musicale_ things would be aces if the music didn't set them back.

JOHN HENRY ON GOLF.

Hereafter golf is the game for Gillis!

Me for the niblick and the brassie--fine!

Billy Baldwin, Harry Ford and Eddie Bartlett took me out last summer and put me wise to the whole lay-out. In less than an hour I could play the game better than Doolan, and he's the man that made it.

Golf has all the other games slapped to a sit-down.

I know it because I played it once and Billy told me that as soon as a few Scotch thistles sprouted on my shins I'd be the real rinakaboo!

Harry told me I could drive good enough to own a hack, and Eddie thought I was the likeliest side-stepper that ever did a grass-chopping specialty.

The only drawback they found was that I didn't hit the ball.

It's immense for the chest measurement to have the bunch hand you out the salve spiel--believe me!

I took my lady friend out Westchester way last week and on the road I was Reckless Robert with the big talk.

It's a habit with me to go up and butt the ceiling every time my lady friend is near enough to listen.

Most of us young guys are gushers with the loud language when the Best and Only is in the building.

How we do like to gather the gab and hand out hints to the heroine that she's gazing on the greatest ever!

When Clara Jane asked me if I knew the game I told her that I used to room with the man that built the first links.

When she asked me his name I told her it was McDougall, because that's the name of a head-waiter who helps to spend my money.

She asked me if I knew what a lofter is and I said, "Sure, I eat them for breakfast every morning!"

When we reached Westchester we met a Society duck named Lionel von Hamburg.

I think his father invented the Hamburger steak.

Lionel was all to the best.

He was Finnegan the Fine Boy, for sure.

One of those tart little red coats squeezed his shape, and around his neck he had a pink stock that was waiting for a chance to choke him.

My lady friend met this gilly once at a bean _soiree_ and she was his evening star.

They sat on the stairs together and put a kink in the caramels.

When the gong sounded for the ice-cream that night Lionel had dipped her out a tubful, and he was sure she liked him for his boyish ways.

So on this occasion it was Lionel's play to give me the low tackle and claim the calico.

But I'm something of a Mr. Fox myself on rare occasions, and I couldn't see Lionel doing a two-step through the farm lands with my Esmeralda--not through the opera glasses.

Clara Jane introduced me to His Pinkness and he invited us in the clubhouse to throttle our thirsts.

I ordered a rickey, Clara Jane called for a lemonade, and Lionel's guess was a pail of Vichy and milk.

When the suds rolled up I gave the Vichy stuff the sad eye and Lionel caught the gaze.

I could see that he wanted to back pedal right then, but he waited until the next round and then he waded out among the high boys.

It was the bluff of his life.

His limit on bug bitters was imported ginger ale with a piece of lime in it.

When he was out roystering and didn't care what became of him he would tell the bartender to add a dash of phosphates.

But now he made up his mind to splash around in the tide waters just because the lady was looking on.

Lionel felt that the future was at stake and he must cut out the saw-dust extracts and get busy with the grown-up booze.

After the first high ball Lionel began to chatter and mention money.

The mocking birds were singing down on the old bayou, and he began to give Clara Jane the loving leer.

She grew a bit uneasy and wanted to start the paddle wheels, but I signalled to the waiter because I wished her to see her Society slob at his best.

At first he insisted upon dragging out a basket of Ruinart, and he wanted to order rubber boots so we could slosh around in it.

But I steered him off and he went all the way up the hill and picked out another high fellow.

When the second high was under cover he reached over and patted Clara Jane on the hand.

He wanted to lead her away to Paris and show her everything that money could buy.

When she gave him the "Sir!" gag he apologized and said he didn't mean Paris, he meant the Pan-American.

Then he smiled feverishly and opened a package of hiccoughs.

When Clara Jane and I moved out on the links Lionel was watching the floor and trying to pick out a spot that didn't go 'round and 'round.

His chips were all in and he was Simon with the Souse, for sure.

Clara Jane said, "What a ridiculous person!" but what she meant was, that that would be about all from Lionel.

Then we chartered a couple of caddie boys and started in to render a few choice selections on the clubs.

My caddie boy's name was Mike, and he looked the part.

The first crack out of the box I lost my ball and Mike found it under his left eye.

I gave him a quarter to square myself and he said I could hit him on the other eye for ten cents more.