Evening Star Newspaper, June 17, 1923, Page 76

It Makes Some Difference Whether You're Buying a Baby's Toy or Hit a Streak of Bad Luck Playing Poker HE new one-hundred-dollar bill, | As if it was a crime my going to & clean and green, slid over the|vaudeville matinee with a man kind glass of the teller's counter to|enough to notice that my husband a fat hand, dingy on the | hever takes me anywher: %knuckles, but brightened by a flawed “Did you go to a vaudeville with diamond. This interesting hand was | him today? & part of one of those men who seem | “No, I didn't!” she sald. “I was 0 have too much fattened muscle for | talking about the time when vou their clothes: his shoulders distended | made such a fuss. 1 dldn't go any- his overcoat; his calves strained the | where with him today.” sprightly checked cloth of his trou- “I'm glad to hear it,” Collinson sers; his shurt neck bulged above the |8ald. “I wouldn't have stood for it.” glossy collar. His small eyes twin-| “Oh, you wouldn't?” she cried, and kled surreptitiously between those |2dded & shrill laugh as further com- upper and nether puffs of flesh that |Ment. “You wouldn’t have stood for mark the too faithful practitioner of | 1t/ 2 SRRANIowe sarktien “Never mind" he returned dog- Obviously, the man's emall head |E°dly. “We went over all that last had e opertive pian i T for the | time, und you understand me: Il Ewinkio hetsoen Ma csn-pufts hinteq | have np more foolishness about Char- of liquor in the offing and livel "’,‘lll“’“’""" , women impressed by a show of mas- OFyInicR o Yo terly riches. Here, in brief, was a Of YOUTS: You g0 with him yoursclf: man who meant to make a night of It | DUt Your wife musn't even look at eHo was happy, and went out of the| LM Just because he happens to be % gy : ! the one man that amuses her a little. bank believing that money is made for 4 oo or That's fine The splendia “Never mind,” Collinson said again. “You say vou saw him today, I want to know where. one-hundred-dollar | bill was taken from him untimely, before nightfall that very evening.| <“Suppose I don't choose to tell you.” At the corner of two busy streets he | I want to know where you saw parted with it to the law, though only | Charlie Loomis.” after a cold-blooded threatening on| She tossed her curls again, the part of the luwver. This latter|jgughed. “Isn't it funny!" she said. walked away thoughtfully, with the |sJust because I like & man, he's the one-hundred-dollar bill in pocket. | one person I can't have anything to Collinson was the lawyer's name.|do with! Just because he's kind and and in years he was only twenty- | jolly and amusing and I like his jokes eight, but already of slightly harried |and his thoughtfulness toward a appearance. His dark. ready-made |woman, when he's with her, I'm not clothes. his twice-soled shoes and his | to be allowed to see him at all! But hair, too long for a meat and busi- | my husband—oh that's entirely dif- nesslike aspect. weére symptoms of |ferent! Ife can go out with Charlie necessary economy; but he did not | whenever he likes and have a good wear the eager look of a man who |time, while T stay home and wash saves to “get on for himself.” Collin- | dishes! Oh, it's a lovely life!” son’s look was that of an employed)| “Where did you see him today?" and He's a friend | man who only deepens his rut with his pacing of it. An employed man he was, indeed; | a lawyer without much hope of ever seeing his name on th door or on the letters of the firm that emploved him and his most important work | was the collection of small debts | This one-hurdred-dollar bill now in| pocket was such a collection, | small to the client, though of 4 noble | size to himself and the lor,xvp:xr.un—d‘ debtor from whom he lad just col- | lected it { The banks wers closed s the | office. for Collinson was on his wa Rome when by chance he encountered the debtor: thers was nothing to do but to keep the overnight. This was no hardship. howevar, as he had & faint pleasure in the unfamiliar ex- perience of walking home with such a thing in his pocket: and he felt a| little important by proxy when he thought of it ! As Collinson walked on northward he passed & cluster of shops where the light was bright. and at of | these oases of illumination lin- | gered a moment. with *o buy a toy his three-vear- toy was a so win for ttle girl. The Iy colored acrobatic monkey that willingly climbed up and down a string. and he knew that the “baby” would scream with delight at the signt of He had $12 of his own in at. | but the toy was marked "33 cents’ | and he decided he could not afford it ! So he sighed and went on * % x % ‘ HEN he reached home, was crving. and his wife. pretty and a little frowsy. was vlsufll,‘ irritated by cooking. bored by tha baby and purzied by the duil life she led. Other women, it appeared, had | Lappy and luxurious homes, and dur- | ing the malnutritious dinner she had | prepared she mentioned many such | women by name, laying particular stress upon the achievements of their husbands. Mre. Theodore Thompson's | husband had bought a perfectly beau- tiful 1ittle sedan automoblle. Mrs. Will Gregory had merely mentioned | that her old Hudson seal coat was wearing a little, and her husband had | instantly said: “Whatll & new one come to, girlie? Four or five bun- dred? Run and get it!" Why were other women's husbands like tha*— and why, oh. why. was hers like this?" “My goodness!” he said. as if T had sedans and sealskin coats | on me! Well, I haven't; that's all!” “Then go out and get ‘em!” she said flercely. “Go out and get 'em “What with?’ he {nquired. “T have | $£12 in my pocket. end a balance of $17 at the bank; that's twenty-nine. I get twenty-five from the offics| day after tomorrow—Saturday; that| malkes fifty-four; but we have to pay forty-five for rent on Monday; o that'll Teave us 38 Shall T buy you a sedan ard a sealskin coat on Tues- day out of the nine?” Mrs. Collinson began to weep a lit- tle. “The old, old storv!” she sald. “Six long, long vears it's been going | on now. I ask you how much you've got, and you say, ‘nine dollars' or ‘seven dollars,’ or ‘four dollars, once it was ‘sixty-five cents! Sixty- | five cents; that's what we had to live ont Sixty-five cents! Why can't you do what decent men Jo?" ‘What's that?" “Why, give their wives something to live for. What do you give me, 1'd like to know! Look at the clothes 1 wear, please! “Well, it's your own fauit,” he mut- tered. “What did you say? Did you say it's my fault I wear clothes any woman I know wouldn't be seen in? “If you hadn’t made me get you that platinum ring—" “What!” she cried. “Look at it! It's platinum, ves: but look at the stone In it, about the size of a pin- head. A hundred and sixteen dollars is what this magnificent ring cost vou, and how long did I have to beg tefors I got even that little out of Tou? And it's the only thing I ever did get out of you!” “Oh, Lordy,” he moaned. “I wish you'd seen Charlie Loomis looking at this ring today,” she sald, with a desolute laugh. “I saw him keep glancing at it, and I wish you'd seen Charlie's expression}” Collingon stared at her gravel then he put Gown his fork and sal “So you saw Charlie Loomis again today, Where?" “Oh, my!” she sighed. “Have we ®ot to go over all that again?” “Over all what?" “Over all the fuss you made the last time I mentioned Charlie's nam I thought we settled it you were go ing: to be a little more sensible about him.” “Yes,” Collinson returned. “I was going to be more sensible about him becauss you were going to be more ‘wensible about him. * % x* HE gave him a hard glance. - “Oh, my, but you do make me-tired! Py in 0w a the baby | | You talk | | me like this? ! voice. rought | | She looked at him plaintively and allowed ‘tears to shine along her lower eyelids. “Why do vou treat she asked in a feeble “Why can't I have a man friend $#f I want to? I do like Char- le. 1 do like him— “Yes' That's what I noticed" “Well, but what's the good of always insulting me about him? He has time on his hands of afternoons, and so have I. Our janitor's wife is crazy about the baby and just adores to have me leave her in their flat Why ehouldn’t I g0 to a matinee or picture show sometimes with Char- ite “I want to know where you saw n today!® Mrs. Collinson jumped up “Oh, hush up!" she cried He came here to leave a note for you.' “Oh,” said her husband. I beg your pardon. That's different “llow sweet of you!" “Where's the note, please She took it from h pocket and tossed it to him ng us its A ote for you it's all right, of course,” she said. “T wonder what you'd do he'd written one to m ever mind." said (ollin<on read the note “Dear Collfe: Dave and Smithie 01 Bill and Sammy Hoag and ma Steinfe and Sol are coming over t the shack about eight-thirty. Hom brew and the old pastime. You know! Don't fail CHARLIE.” “You've read of course.” linson said “I have not, s wife returned covering the prevarication with a cold dignity. “I'm not in the habit of reading other people’s correspond- ence, thank you'’ ‘Well, vou can said and a this, read it now,” he * x swept * x ER eves the Writing Coi- | THE . SUNDAY STAR, fat, round heads, sleek, fair hair, im- maculate, pale complexions and in- firm little? pink mouths—in fact, he was of th# type that may suggest to the student of resemblances a fas- tidious and excessively clean white Pig with transparent ears. : Charlie was particularly indulgent to pretty women and their children. One of his greatest pleasures was to tell a woman that she was “the dear- est, bravest little girlie in the world,’ and he would often bring a really magnificent toy to the child of some friend whosa wife he was courting. well enough things easil these little in business to take and he liked to give ard parties, not for gain, \ I COLLINSON TOS | but and_disl | 1 don't ider it {have uny man go out o' my sh | sore.” he was wont to say. “Myself, | 1'm a bachelor and got no obligations; I'll #hoot any man that can ufford it anything he wants to. Trouble is, | you never can tell when a man can't lafford it what harm ! might mea to’ the little girlie at home and ghe kiddies. No, boys, | nighest wdllgo in this ole shack Penny-ante and & few steins of the ole home-brew that hasn't got a di- vorce a barrel of it' Penny-ante und 0ld homa-brew had been in festal operatfon for half an for pastime ed high stakes in a game con rived this evening. Mr. Loomis and his guests sat about the round table under the alabaster drop-light; their coats were off; cigars were worn at the deliberate poker angle; colorful chips and cards glistened on the cloth: one of the players wore a green At thirty-three, he had already done | Al \ D THE ONE-HUNDRED-DOL He was cautious said the man with the gree hospitality to |sald Smitkie, cheerfully hix losin’ g {harm. hour when the morose Collinson ar- | i to his neighbor. | have “Smithie! Are you ever goin’ “I'm goin’ to shuffle first,” he re- sponded, suiting the action to the word, at the same time continuing his Glscourse. “It's a mighty Interesting thing, a piece o' money. You take this dollar, now: Who's it belonged 10? Where's it been? What different kind o' funny things has it been spent for sometimes? What funny kind of secrets do you suppose it could ‘a’ heard if it had ears? Good people have had it and bad people have had it; why a dollar could tell more about the human race—why, It could tell all about t!" “I guess it couldn’t tell all about the way you're dealin’ those cards,” TR M\ il i 0 shade “You're mixin’ things all up.” I'il straighten 'em ail out t “They sa If it could talk, what Nobody'd be safe. | now, but who's iext, and w n after t ‘Money talks.' couldn't it tenl? got this dollar goin’ to Lelong he do with it? Why. for years {11 go on from a milifonaire’s house one day, some burg! s flat the next nd in one person’s hand monev'il good. likely, and in another's i We all want money: but son say it's a bad thing. like that dum: T was talkin' about. Goodness badness, Il take all anybod He interrupted agai creased vehemence. Col next to him, compl demand to “ante up. doltar 1 chips. and looked at his cards proved unencouraging. and he t “I'd sort of that’ marked dollar, Smithie,” he sald. "Il give you a paper doilar n and vears to anott she, briefly, and she made a sound of | shade over lis eves: and all in all, | i 3 | and a nickel for it wonderment, as if amazed to find her- | here was a little poker party for @ | self so true a prophet. “And the words weren't more than out of my mouth! party right in his flat, while your wife stays home and gets the baby to bed and washes the dishes!" “I'm not going.” “Oh, no'” she said mockingiy see you missing one of Charlie’s stag parties!” “T'll miss this one.” But it was not to Mrs purpose that he should iniss the party; and so, after carrying some | dishes into the kitchenette in medi- | tative silence, she reappeared with a | She went to her | changed manner. husband, gave him a shy little pat on the shoulder and laughed good- naturedly. “Of course you'll go," she sald. “You work hard the whole time hone; nd the only pleasure you ever do have, it's when yvou get a chance to go to one of these little penny- ante stag parties. 1 want you to go.” “Oh, no,” said Collinson. “It's only penny-ante, but I couldn’t afford to lose anything at all.” “If you did lose, it'd only be a few cents,” she said. “You'll work ail the better if you go out and enjoy your- self once in a while.” “Weell, if you really look at it that way, I'll go.” hat's right, dear.” she said, smil- ing. “Better put on a fresh collar and your other suit, hadn't you?" “I suppose 80,” he assented. When he had completed his toilet, it was time for him to go. She came in from the kitchenette and kissed him. “There, honey,” she said. “Run along and have a nice time. Then maybe you'll be a little more sensi- ble about some of my little pleas- ures.” He held the one hlundred dollar bill folded in his hand, meaning to leave it with her, but as she spoke a sud- den recurrence of suspicion made him forget his purpose. “Look here,” he sald. “I'm not making any bargain with you. You talk as if you thought I was going to let you run around to vaudevilles with Charlie because you let me go to this party. Is that your 1dea? It was, indeed, precisely Mrs. Col- linson’s idea, and she was instantly angered enough to admit it in her re- tort. “Oh, aren't you mean!” she cried. “I might known better than to look for any fairness in a man like you!"” K “See here!" “Oh, hush up!" she said, “Shame on you! Go on to your party!” With that she put both hands upon his breast and pushed him toward the door. M “I won't go. I'll stay here.” “You will, too, go!" she cried shrewishly. “I don't want to look at you around here all evening.” “All right,” 'said Collinson, lently, will go!" “Yes! Get out of my sight” And he did, taking the one hundred dollar bill with him to the penny- ante poker party. * * ¥ ¥ LOOMIS was one of those toutish young men with vio- eat, You can go and have a grand | Collinson's | lithograph | “Dle Collie, b'gosh!” Mr. Loomis shouted, humorously. “Here's your | vacant cheer; stack all stuck out for | you 'n everthin'! Set daown, neigh- | bor, an’ Smithiell deal you in, next hand. What made vou mo late? Helpin® the little girlie at home get the kiddy to bed? That's a great kiddy of yours, Collie?"- Collinson took the chair that had been left for him, counted his chips and then §a the playing of a “hand” still precccupled three of the com- pany, he picked up a silver dollar that lay upon the table near him. ‘What's this?" he asked. “A side bet? |Or did somebody just leave it here for me?’ “Yes; for vou to look at” Mr Loomis explained. « “Tt's Smithie's.” “What's wrong with it? “Nothin'. Smithie was just showin’ it to us. Look at it." Collinson turned the coin over and saw a tiny inscription that had been lined into the silver with a point of steel. “Luck,” he read—“Luck hurry back to me!” Then he spoke to the owner of this marked dollar. “I sup- pose you put that on there, Smithie, to help make sure of getting our money tonight. But Smithle shook his head. “No," he said. “It just came in over my counter this afternoon, and I noticed it when I was checkin' up the day's cash. Funny, back to me “Who do you suppose marked that on it?" Collinson sald thoughtfully. olly!” his host exclalmed. “It won't do you much good to wonder about that!” Collinson frowned, continuing to stare at the marked dollar. “I guess not, but really I should like to know. “I would, too,” Smithle said. * béen thinkin’ about it. Might 'a’ been somebody in Seattle or somebody in Ipswich, Mass, or New Orleans or St. Paul. How you goin’ to tell? It's funny how some people like to belleve luck depends on some little thing like that.” “Yes, it is,” Collinson assented, still brooding over the coin. * kX % HE philosophic Smithie extended his arm across the table, collecting the cards to deal them, for the “hand" was finished. sir; it's funny,” he repeated. *Nobody knows exactly what luck is, but the way I guess It out, it lays in & man's bellevin’' he's in luck, and some little object llke this makes him kind of concentrate his mind on thinkin’ he's going to be lucky, because, of course, you often know you're goin’ to win, and then you do win. You don’t win when you want to win, or when you need to; you win when you belleve you'll win. I don't know who it was that said, ‘Money's the root of all evil’ but I guess he didn't have too much sense. I suppose if some man killed some other man for a dollar, the poor fish that sald that would let the man out and send the dollar to the chair—" But here this garrulous and discur- sive guest was Interrupted by fme moderate protests from ssveral of his| i | cash goes in this game; no I. O. But Smithie head and slid laughed, shook his the coin over toward | bis own chips. “No, sir. I'm goin’ to keep it—awhile. anyway.” “So you think it'll bring vou luck after alli" | ‘No. But I'll hold onto it evening, anvhow." ot if we clean vou out, won't,” sald Charlie Loomis. * know the rules o' the ole shack: on for this vou 1 stuff ever went here or ever will ! Tell you what I'll do. though, before you lose it: T'll give you a dollar and a quarter for your ole silver dollar, Smithie.” “Oh, you want it, too. do you? guess I can spot what sort of luc you want it for, Charlie “Well, Mr. Bones, what sort of luck 1 K |do 1 want it for?” “You win. Smithie” one of the other players said. “We all know what sort o' luck ole Charile wants | your dollar for: he wants it for luck h the dames.” ' Well, I might”" Charlie admitted. | not displeaged. "I haven't been »ol lucky that way latelv—not so dog- gone lucky!” | * o ox X | LL of his guests, except ome.| laughed at this; but Collinson ! frowned, still staring at the marked dollar. For a reason he could not | have put into words just then, it be- | afn’t it: ‘Luck hyrry | 83N to seem almost vitally important | to him to own this coin if he could. | and to prevent Charlie Loomis from | getting possession of it. The jibe, | “He wants It for luck with the! dames,” rankled in Collingon's mind: somehow it seemed to refer to his wife. “I'll tell you what I'll do, Smithie.” he said. “I'll bet two dollars against that dollar of yours that I hold a higher hand next deal than you do.” ‘Here! Here!” Charlie remon- strated. “Shack rules! Ten-cent limit. “That's only for the game,” Collin- son said, turning upon his host with & sudden sharpness. “This is an out- side bet between Smithle and me. Will you do it, Smithie? Where's your sporting spirit?” 5o liberal a proposal at once roused the spirit to which it appealed. “Well, I might, if some o' the others'll come in, too, and make It really worth my while.” “I'm in’ t'he host responded with prompt inconsistency; and others of the party, It appeared, were desirous of owning the talisman. They all “came in," and, for the first time in the history of this “shack,” what Mr. Loomis called “real money” was seen upon the table as a stake. It was won, and the silver dollar with it, by a fat man with a walrus mustache that made him known in this oircle as “Old Bill.” He smiled condescend- ingly, and would have put the dollar in his pocket with the “real money," but Mr. Loomis protested. “Here! What you doin’?” he shouted, eatching Old Bill by the arm. “Put that dollar back on the table. “What for?” “What for? Wy, we're goin’ to play for it again. Here's $2 against it T beat you on the next hand. “No," 'said Old Billy calmly. | @olars WASHINGTON, D. C., JUNE 17, The One Hundred Dollar Bill worth more than two dollars to me. It's worth five. “Well, five then,” his host returned, “I want that dollar!” sald Collinson. in five dollars®if you do." “Anybody else in?" Old Bill in- quired, dropping the coin on the table; and all of the others again “came in.” Old Bill won again; but oonce more Charlie Loomis prevented | him from putting the silver dollar in | his pocket. “Come on now!" Mr. Loomis ex- claimed. “Anybody else but me in on this for five dollars next time?” “I am,” sald Collinson, swallowing with a dry throat; and he set forth all that remained to him of his twelve AR BILL, RATHER CRUMPLED. UPON THE TABLE. In return’ b deuces, eceived jubiliant of won and the plece just keep on tryin you belong, gi » our regular said Old wouldn't fet me keep it. Put there and play for it dgain ‘I won't. She's mine I want my luck sald Smithie play for it. Yo “I won't .do it “Yes, vou will he spoke withos it out there yes now." back my- ‘Put. it out and e Old Bill plece Coliinson said, and ity. “You put Mr 1 Loomis will for re- ten T t.\\g}x" “ALL RIGHT.” SAID COLLINSO} foolish enough.” And Smithie agreed with him. “Nor me!” “All right, then. If you're afraid of ten, I keep it. I thought the ten'd scare you."” " ‘Put that dollar on the table,” Col- linson said. “T'll put ten against it There was a little commotion among these mild gamesters; and some one said: “You're crazy, Colile. What do you want to do that for?” don't care,” said Collinson. “That dollar's already cost me enough, and I'm going after it “Well, you'see, I want it, too,” Charlie Loomis retorted cheerfully; and he appealed to the others. “I'm not askin’ him to put up ten against it, am 12 “Maybe not,” Old BIill assented. “But how long !s this thing goin’ to | keep on? It's already balled our game all up, and if we keep on foolin’ with these side bets, why, what's the use?’ “My goodness,” the host exclaimed. “I'm not pushin' this thing, am I? 1 don't want to risk my good luck plece, do 1?7 It's Collie that's crazy to go on, ain't it?' He laughed. “He hasn't showed -his money yet, though, I notice, and this ole shack is run on strictly cash principles. I | “r'1l put | 5. 1923—PART don't believe he's got ten dollars more j clear his mind’s eye of the one-hun- on him!" “Oh; yes, I have.” | “Let’s see it then." | @red-dollar bu1; and its likeness, as it lay crumpled on the green cloth under the droplight, haunted and hurt Collinson’s nostrils distended a lit- | him as a face in a coffin haunts and | tle; but he said nothing, fumbled in | hurts the new mourner. | his pocket, and then tossed the one- ihundn»d-dnllar bill, rather crumpled, upon the table “Call the doctor; I'm all of a swoon! “Look at what's spilled over our nice clean table!” another said, in an awed voice. “Did you claim he didn’t | have ten on him, Charlie?” | “Well, it's nice to look at,” Smithie | observed. “But I'm with Old Bill. | How long are you two goin’ to keep | this thing goin'? 1If Collie wins the Juck plece, I suppose Charlie’ll bet him fifteen against it, and then—" | “No, I won't,” Charlie interrupted. en’s the limit.” oin’ to keep on against it all night?" [ “No,” said Charlie. | what Tl do with vou, | both of us seem kind o' set on this bettin' tell vou | “Great heavens:” shouted Old Bill. | g ten | ilinson; we | | luck plece, and you're -already out | ome on it. Il give you a square ance at it and at catchin' even. |It's twenty minutes after 9. I'll keep on these side bets with you till 110 o'clock, but when my clock hits 10, w d the one that's | got_it and no more foolin". iat. or quit now? ¢ efther way.” * “Go deal” said Collin- “Whichever one of us has it at lock antt "om 10 o and we * | PUT when the littie clock on Charlie's green-painted mantel- | shelf struck 10. the luck plece was ;(‘harue’u and with it an overwhelm- * % % x T seemed to Collinson then that money the root of all evil and root of all good, the root and branch of all life, indeed. With money, his wife would have been amiable, not needing gay bachelors to take her to vaudevilles. Her need of money was the. true foundation of the’ jealousy that had sent him out morose and reckless tonight; of the Jealousy that had made it seem, when he gambled with Charlie Loomis for the luck dollar, as though they really gambled for luck with her. It still seemed to him that they had gambled for luck with her, and Charlie had won it. Collinson began to wonder how he could have risked money that belonged to another man, What on earth had made him do what he had done? Was it the mood his wife had set him in as he went out that evening? No; he had gone out feeling like that often enough and nothing had happened. Something had brought this trou- ble on him, he thought: for it ap- peared to Collinson that he had been an automaton, having nothing to do with his own actions. He must bear the responsibility for them, but he had not willed them. If the one-hun- dred-doMar bfl had not happened to be in his pocket—— That was it And at the thought he mumbled deso- lately to himself: 1f it hadn't been for that” Smithie's romancing came back to him: “In one person’s hands money'll do good, likely: in another's it'll do harm.” It was the money in his hands had done this harm to himself. He had to deliver a hundred dollars At the office in the morning, some- how. ihis bank, and lLe could pawn his watch for twenty-five, as he knew well enough by experience. That would leave $58 to be paid, and there was only one way to get His wife | ing 1ien on the one-hundred-dollar | i1l He put both in his pocket. “Re- | member this ain't my fault: it was | you that insist he sald, and, handed Collinson four five-dollar bills as change. ' | ©la Bill, platoni overed that his applied a match and casually set forth his opinion. “Well, I guess that s about us poor a way of spendin’ ¥ dollars as T ev all goes to show 1d motto t Lappen & mighty nice b ad on you, Coliie ally interested. ar was spar. She'd have to! Without &any guess what she wou when he told her of The one-hundred-dollar bill had him the last vestiges of mastery ol at The could 1 er game! 1ndred by n around r—it don" —and yours has The * to hop to ced been dealt guess Is °t 1 pro chunk o that Chariie and n is He paused to la the cards had nd ¢ M well, . Jure T to ole army show Faris dowis o 5t was 4 boul closing and by hour of | the old shack) Collinson had lost four dollars and thirty cents more. He was commiser- ated by his fellow gamesters as they put on their coats and overcoats v shook their heads, laughed rue- in symputhy and told him he e to carry hundred-dollar bills upon his person when he went out among friends. Old Bill made what these pastimes in cd and se. after the war and had luxuriously furnished for parties—and it did not succeed. was sold but kept its name— Follies- it was 1 been take b York entertainer who show Parisians Wwhat follies are. He has opened we! rich Americans to give him a send- off. 1t is supposed to realize thelr ideal of Paris Natives call Now it hag known New going to real Paris with a success. a w is it “American Fo and. as they are curious creaty those who have money enough are | sure to come to see what New York in like. All that does no harm to | either Cablegrams have been published in | Paris saying that the New York po- lice have laid their hands on a choice set of Paris apaches who were reg {lar artists as burglars of rich folks The Parisian scratches his head and thinks how very superior the New York apache must be—for the apache e knows in Paris never knew enough about the rich to burgle them. In fact, for the Paris apache a burglar is a swell, while he—the apache— is just @ rough who is determined not to work and so has to get his living by his wits or by his women. As his | wits and women never get anvwhere | near the rich quarters, his burgling does not go much farther than going | through the pockets of some drunken man who has fallen asleep o & street bench. % p Some years ago a New York show was put on the stagé in Paris with an apache dressed ageording to the New York idea of him and doing dances. French Parislans had never | seen anything like it before, but they | found it curious and were convinced | that was the life—in New York. The French dancer who did the turn was asked where he learned his apache dance and answered. “Why, fn New York, of course.” In all such things the business question is the beginning. and it is i this, “Will Americans passing through Paris be interested enough in the show to make it pay?’ Any show— Spanish dances. Russian ballet, Eng- lish knockabouts—can be made to pay in Paris for the first weeks.. The French are curfous to see forelgn thin But the show or pleasure must have stayving qualities to become permanently Parisian. What was once the Italian ballet holds its own in Paris opera, but the old Moulin Rouge dances which once drew o many forelgners are forgotten now. So it 1s with all shows and pleasure places. A true story is told of the old Maxim's, which was owned by an English company and was looked up to in London and New York as genu- ine, mysterious, naughty Paris. More than once after midnight, when it ought to have been most awful in the foreign {deal, In the back room on one side there was a row of stald Ameri- can women lookingr across at another row of American women on the other side, each wondering which particu- lar object of thelr vision was the real Paris demi-monde. And their husbands, who had been obliged to bring their wives, yawned and won- dered if there would have been any fun Boing on without them. In those days only foreign women who pretended to respectability were seen at such places. Paris by night was & man's town. Will the Ameri- can women who patronize these American Follies dancing places keep them within American bounds in Paris? And, in that case, will the American man say he might as well have stayed at home in Chicago? “N'Yawk's the place.” Well, there are now so many war profiteers in all countries anxious to spend their new money that perhaps Parisiane may accept Paris made over to the image of New York. VIOLENTLY, “I WILL GO!™ is sometimes called an unfortunate remark. 7 “Don’t worry about Collie,” he said, Jocosbly. “That hundred-dollar bill prob'ly belonged to some rich client of his” “What!" Collinson said, staring. “Never mind, Collle; T wasn't earnest,” the joker explained. course I didn’t mean it.” “Well, you oughtn’t to say it,” Col- linson’ protested. “People say a thing Iike that gbout & man in a jéking way, but other people hear it some- times and don't know they're jokins, and a story gets started.” “My goodness, but you're serious!” Old Bill exclaimed. “You look like you had 2 misery in your chest, as the rubes say; and I don’t blame you! Get on out in the fresh night air and you'll feel better.” He was mistaken, however; the night air failed to improve Collin- son’s spirits as he walked home alone through the dark and chilly streets. There was, indeed, a misery in his chest, where stirred a sensation vaguely nauseating. His hands were tremulous and his knees infirm as he walked, In his mind was a confusion of pletures and sounds, echoes from Charlie Loomis' shack. He could not in “of 1 1 “I'd been all right| There was a balance of $17 in | would have to let him pawn her ring. | without the foolishness and |Paris | person BOOTH TARKINGTON his own house; and Charlie Loomis had really won not only the bill and* the luck, but the privilege of taking Collinson's wife to vaudevilles, And it all came back to the same conclu- sion: The one-hundred dollar bfil had done it to him. “What kind of a thing s this life? Collinson} mumbled to himself, finding mzltér:/ wholly perplexing in a world mads into tragedy at the caprice of a littl. oblong slip of paper. * ¥ ¥ X N H. as he went on his way wake his wife and face her witing the soothing proposal to pawn her .}, ring early in the morning, something happened to Collinson. Of itself the thing that happened was nothing, but he was aware of his folly as stood upon a mountain top agains: the sun—and o he gathered know! edge of himself and a little of the wisdom that is called better than happiness. His way was now the same as upon the latter stretch of his walk home from' the office that evening. The air was clean with a night wind that moved briskly from the west In all the long street there was o one window lighted. When he « to it he paused, and, frow perceived that this was the rum shop window that had detained himn on his homeward way, when he had thought of buying a t for the bab The toy was still there in bright window: the gay little acr batic monkey that would climb up « down a red string as the stri: slacked or straightened; but Coll: n's eye fixed itself upon th marked with the price: * He stared and stared. “Thirty-five cents’ €aid to himself. “Thirts five cents!” Then suddenly he burst and prolonged laughter. The sound was startling the quiet night and roused the interest of a meditative policeman who stood 3 card into loud He stepped out, not unfriend! u havin' such a good tinie »ur o the night?" hat's all the joke n pointed to the window y on the string. about it struck me as mighty fun o with a better spi away. still laughing, and to face his wife. Copreight B & tarned nome 1925 ) 'New Yorkers Teach Paris Sightseeing £ anud real apac rough of the oid ows French ‘Louvre” they will say in ex- French to the cabdriver, and, he lands them at the big shop hat name, to them- the ys done: ntended to the ent when to go ait s been made in in touring every. more tourists coma - conducted by travel agen- cies, and these send out their parties In great touring cars hoiding com- fortably twenty or more. They secs all the regulation eights—which na- tive Parisians have often never seen %0 methodically—and so Parisfans and French people up from the prov- inces use this means, too. So’ New York teaches Parls how to see ftseif and what to see—and this is not afl Follies. STERLING HEILIG —_———— Toll of the Jungle [¥DIA sl pays its annual tribute of human Iife to the jungle. In fact the number of deaths from snake bites.or the attacks of wild anima has steadily increased during the last few years, a fict which has. been attributed to the great fidods. The rising ‘waters have driven the ser- pents out of the lowlands up into the villages, and have diminished through drowning tlie natural food supply of the larger wild beasts According to the latest annual figures available, ffty-five persons were kflled by elephante, twenty-fiva by hyenas, 109' by bears, 351 by leop ards, 819 Ly wolves, 853 by tigers and 699 by other animals, including wi'd hogs. No less than.32,478 died. from| the bite of poisonous snakes grand total.of mertality is something like -25.000. Maes { The losses qn tha part-of the .o-j habitants of the jungle were nearifi but not quite so'great as those ¢ their human enemies and the donte: cated antmals/conibined. Ninety thousand one hutidred and four apales; and over 19,000 wild beasts éf. varis: ous kinds were killed. 3 A great many cases of snike bl were successfully treated with Brun- ton lancet and premanganate of pot ash, but it is nevertheless imposs to assert the value of this treatment, since no one knows whether all, or even a large number, of the cases treated were caused by the bites of really venomous snakes. —_— o | 4 s o Timing Bananas: & IT is senerally known that bananas 1 are shipped while yet green unripe, but few persons are aw of the careful and elaborate time ca's culations required in setting out the ¢ plants and cutting off the fruit in order to insure the arrival of the bananas in proper condition &t their destination. When a plantation is* begun the young plants are set out at certain periods so that they will produce at regular pre-fixed times during the ¥ A certain number of days be- fore the arrival of a steamer the green fruit is cut and a close cal culation of the time that will ‘be consumed in the voyage must always be made, else the bananas will be spoiled. Fruit steamers carry steam- heating apparatus to insure a unj- form temperature throughout the voyage. The ripening {s calculifea to occur only after the fruit has reached. the retail dealer. . %