It was she who last season smoked a cigarette
in public, and there is a report now that she is seriously considering
wearing an ankle bracelet; withal she is a perfect lady and belongs
to one of the old Southern families. Her husband has been through
the bankruptcy courts twice and is thinking of going through again.
At present he is engaged in promoting and writing a little life
insurance on the side.
Now her equipage is lost in the throng and the great actor continues
on his way, making a mental note of the fact that he has promised
to attend her next Sunday afternoon studio tea. Near his own stage
door he bumps into Commodious Rotunda, the stout comedian of the
comic theater, and they pause to swap the latest Lambs' Club
repartee. This done, Commodius hauls out a press clipping and
would read it, but the other remembers providentially that he has
a rehearshal on and hurriedly departs. If there are any press
clippings to be read he has a few of his own that will bear
inspection.
Superior Maxillary, managing editor of the Pompeiian "Daily
News-Courier," is also abroad, collecting items of interest and
subscriptions for his paper, with preference given to the latter.
He enters the Last Chance Saloon down at the foot of the street
and in a minute or two is out again, wiping his mustache on the
back of his hand. We may safely opine that he has been taking a
small ad. out in trade.
At the door of the county courthouse, where he may intercept the
taxpayers as they come and go, is stationed our old friend, Colonel
Pro Bono Publico. The Colonel has been running for something or
other ever since Heck was a pup. To-day he is wearing his official
campaign smile, for he is a candidate for county judge, subject
to the action of the Republican party at the October primaries.
He is wearing all his lodge buttons and likewise his G. A. R. pin,
for this year he figures on carrying the old-soldier vote.
See who comes now! It is Rigor Mortis, the worthy coroner. At
sight of him the Colonel uplifts his voice in hoarsely jovial
salutation:
"Rigsy, my boy," he booms, "how are you? And how is Mrs. M. this
morning?"
"Well, Colonel," answers his friend, "my wife ain't no better.
She's mighty puny and complaining. Sometimes I get to wishing the
old lady would get well - or something!"
The Colonel laughs, but not loudly. That wheeze was old in 79.
In front of the drug-store on the corner a score of young bloods,
dressed in snappy togas for Varsity men, are skylarking. They are
especially brilliant in their flashing interchanges of wit and
humor, because the Mastodon Minstrels were here only last week,
with a new line of first-part jokes.
