It was pitiful.
Eight o’clock came, no Flash, no machine, while there we waited and watched our hair as it slowly turned gray.
I had gone through my pockets till I wore holes in them without locating anything in the shape money, but finally on about the 919th lap Bunch discovered dollar bill tucked away in a corner, whereupon we turned our faces to every point of the compass and called down maledictions on the head of Flash Harvey, wherever he might be, and then ducked for the trolley.
When we finally reached the Hotel Astor it was a quarter past ten, so we decided it was too late for dinner and we didn’t go in.
At home—but what’s the use?
The war is over now and a treaty of peace has been signed.
We are even with Flash Harvey, though.
He got speed-foolish in the Bubble and tried to give an imitation of a torpedo destroyer, with the result that a Reub constable pinched him and the whole outfit and threw him in a rural Bastile for the night.
That’s what delayed him.
I received a letter the other day that put me over the ropes.
I’ll paste it up here just to show you that it’s on the level:
Philadelphia, This Week.
Dear John:—I have never met you personally, but I’ve heard my brother, Teddy, speak of you so often that you really seem to be one of the family.
(Teddy talks slang something fierce.)
Dear John, will you please pardon the liberty I take in grabbing a two-cent stamp and jumping so unceremoniously at one who is, after all, a perfect stranger?
Dear John, if you look around you can see on every hand that the glad season of the year is here, and if you listen attentively you may hear the hoarse cry of the summer resort beckoning us to that burn from which no traveller returns without getting his pocketbook dislocated.
Dear John, could you please tell me how to play bridge whist, so that when I go to the seashore I will be armed for defraying expenses.
Dear John, I am sure that if I could play bridge whist loud enough to win four dollars every once in a while I could spend a large bunch of the summer at the seashore.
Dear John, would you tell a loving but perfect stranger how to play the game without having to wear a mask?
Dear John, I played a couple of games recently with a wide faced young man who grew very playful and threw the parlor furniture at me because I trumpeted his ace. I fancy I must have did wrong. The fifth time I trumpeted his ace the young man arose, put on his gum shoes, and skeedaddled out of the house. Is it not considered a breach of etiquette to put on gum shoes in the presence of a lady?
If you please, dear John, tell me how to play bridge whist.