ld,
dried-up seamstress pay a dollar to sit in the roost to see Gerald
Height love the powder off of Violet while she is cursing him under her
breath for so doing, and it tickles me under my ribs to see some fat,
jolly, lonely, old party buy a front seat two days hand-running to sit
and watch Mazie Villines dance over her own head and take the child out
to supper afterward in all propriety. It does him good all over after
selling white goods in Squeedunck, Illinois, eleven and three-quarter
months of every year. It's all to the good, Denny, and I wish you could
get the drag of it."

"Perhaps it would be well if I could," agreed Mr. Farraday, as he rose
and shook his big, lithe body with the agility of a frolicsome puppy who
knows he is going into mischief, and looked cautiously at Godfrey. "Is
backing the life of the Violet sport, too?" he ventured.

"Best I know. Took nothing and made it into something in five years. If
it bites my hand that's all in the game."

"Same force could beget and train about eleven small Vandefords into
pretty good American citizens," Mr. Farraday snapped out, and then
backed away.

"Absinthe cocktails ruin the taste for sweet milk. Don't talk about
things you know nothing about; thank God for that same ignorance," Mr.
Vandeford commanded. "Go to bed and sleep like the cherub you are, while
I expiate here with my pipe."

From that conversation it was natural to man nature that the demand for
a half-interest in the next Hawtry show would have been made by Mr.
Dennis Farraday of Mr. Godfrey Vandeford, and acceded to with the
brotherly reservations already related. The eye-teeth of Mr. Dennis
Farraday were very precious to Mr. Godfrey Vandeford, and he had the
intention of taking great care that their edges should not be dulled. It
was well that he did not know that the eleven-fifteen train he had taken
in his flight to New York passed the huge, eight-cylinder Surreness of
his beloved Jonathan in its race up the beach for the home of the
Violet.

Now, when all is said and considered, a large admiration is due and much
should be forgiven Miss Violet Hawtry, who, as half-starved Maggie
Murphy, had darted out of the gutter into the back stage-door at the age
of fifteen, snapped her huge violet eyes with their fringes of black,
trilled a vulgar, Irish street song in accompaniment to sundry
provocative swayings of her lissome, maturing young body, and thus had
made enough impression on her wo