round the Punch Bowl, your Place will resemble the Last Act of
something by Klaw & Erlanger. You will play Stud with the Makers of
History and be seen leaving the Executive Mansion."

This Line of Talk landed him. He Fell for it. That year the Christmas
Tree drooped with valuable Gifts for the Boys who stood after they
were hitched.

He went up to Washington with an eviscerated Check-Book in his Pocket
and a faint Odor of Scandal in his Wake, but he was a certified
Servant of the People. His Cut Flowers were the Talk in Official
Circles. The most Exclusive consented to flirt with his Wine Cellar.

To a mere Outsider it looked as if Ambition had certainly boosted his
Nobs to the final Himalayan Peak of Human Happiness. He had a House as
big as a Hospital. The Hallways were cluttered with whispering
Servants of the most immaculate and grovelling Description. His Wife
and the Daughter and the Cigarette-Holder she had picked up in Europe
figured in the Gay Life of the Nation's Capital every Night and went
to see a Nerve Specialist every Day. The whole Bunch rode gaily on the
Top Wave of the Social Swim, with a Terrapin as an Escort and a squad
of Canvas-Back Ducks as Body-Guard.

Notwithstanding all which, Father was the sorest Hard-Shell that
motored along Pennsylvania Avenue.

The Dime Denouncers printed his Picture, saying that he was owned by
the Interests and hated the sight of a Poor Working Girl. When the
High Class continuous Show in the Senate Chamber showed signs of
flopping and the Press Gallery became impatient, some Alkali Statesman
of the New School would arise in his Place and give our Hero a
Turning-Over, concluding with a faithful Pen-Picture of the Dishonored
Grave marked by a single Headstone, chiseled as follows: "Here lies a
Burglar."

When he went traveling, he had his Food smuggled into the
Drawing-Room. He knew if he went drilling through the Pullmans, some
of the Passengers who had seen the Cartoons might recognize him as the
notorious Malefactor.

One day, while he was cowering in a dark corner of his Club to get
away from the pesky Reporters, he was joined by the Trouble-Maker.

"I gave you the wrong Steer," said Ambition, now much subdued. "You
are in Dutch. Beat it! All the Rough-Necks down by the Round-House
and the fretful Simps along every R.F.D. Route are getting ready to
interfere in the Affairs of Government. The Storm Clouds of Anarchy
are lowering. In other words, the new Prima