Bookie told him to Back Up and Fade and do a Disappearing
Specialty.

Uncle Brewster Escaped and found himself at a Bar. He decided that he
would take a Drink, because he wouldn't be Home until next Day and by
that time it would be off his Breath.

[Illustration: NON-COMBUSTIBLE]

So he laid his Bosom against the Brass Railing and said to the Man in
White, "You might as well draw me a Glass of Beer."

"We've got it in Bottles," said the Barkeep, regarding Uncle Brewster
without a sign of Enthusiasm.

"What do you git for a Bottle?" asked Uncle Brewster.

"Twenty Cents," was the Reply of the Liquor Clerk.

"Keep it," said Uncle Brewster.

Perceiving that the Race-Track was in the hands of Gougers, Uncle
Brewster walked back to the Hotel. By that Time his New Shoes had
Crippled him, and he decided to take the Afternoon Train for home
instead of Waiting Over.

That Evening he was back at his own Fireside, with the Bunged-Up Feet
resting in Carpet Slippers. As he sat and read the Poultry Magazine,
Aunt Mehely looked at him sidewise, and full of Suspicion said, "I
s'pose you just Played Hob there in the City."

And Uncle Brewster replied as follows: "No, Mother, I didn't Drink and I
didn't Gamble. I didn't do Nothin'--not even go to a Theayter."

And as he spoke an Aureole of Virtue seemed to curdle above him, while
his Countenance bore an Expression of Placid Triumph, which meant that
he was the real Asbestos Paragon who had been tried in the Furnace and
declared Non-Combustible.

MORAL: _Some People are Good because it Comes High to be Otherwise_.

_THE_ FABLE _OF THE_ GRASS WIDOW _AND THE_ MESMEREE _AND THE_ SIX
DOLLARS

One Day a keen Business manager who thought nobody could Show him was
sitting at his Desk. A Grass Widow floated in, and stood Smiling at him.
She was a Blonde, and had a Gown that fit her as if she had been Packed
into it by Hydraulic Pressure. She was just as Demure as Edna May ever
tried to be, but the Business Manager was a Lightning Calculator, and he
Surmised that the Bunk was about to be Handed to him. The Cold Chills
went down his Spine when he caught a Flash of the Half-Morocco
Prospectus.

If it had been a Man Agent he would have shouted "Sick 'em" and reached
for a Paper-Weight. But when the Agent has the Venus de Milo beaten on
Points and Style, and when the Way the Skirt sets isn't so Poor, and she
is Coy and introduces the Startled Fawn way of backing up without