strength on the market to-day.

We have stumbled onto a good thing, and we've got the money to 
push it.

You remember the man who at breakfast said: "Waiter, bring me 
about ten grains of oatmeal, and put stickers on it so that it 
will stay down; and say, waiter, please look as pleasant as 
possible, for I feel like h--l."

Well, that's how a person's stomach gets some mornings.

If you are going to drink an aperient, why try to force down a 
water that is warm, and tastes like a lot of bad eggs, doesn't 
touch your liver, and won't cool your blood, when you can get 
the R--R--, cold and sparkling and pleasant, which will do all 
these things?

If you are annoyed with constipation, stomach or liver trouble, 
use as your system dictates, and see bow much better you feel. 
It can't hurt you. Best before breakfast.

IN SOCIETY

Preface

In presenting "In Society," we are confident of success. Upon 
"One Night" comment is unnecessary. A bona fide demand for nearly 
250,000 copies in less than three months speaks for itself. In 
inclosing stamps for books, our men readers who will join the 
"Union" mentioned on page 36 will so state. No names attached to 
such communications will be published. The partial description 
of the Grand Opera "Die Walkure" in this book is given precisely 
as it occurred; and although the up-to-date slang used might 
suggest exaggeration, such is really not the case. Again we ask 
that your name be written plainly. This caution is not addressed 
to the women. We have given up all hope of ever getting a readable 
signature from a woman. Don't think for a moment that we have 
anything against the women. Heaven forbid! We merely say that 
if there is a woman in the United States who can write plainly, 
that particular woman hasn't written us yet.

In Society

Pittsburg, Pa., Feb. 1, 1899. 

Dear Jim:

There is no new scandal worth mentioning. What I started to write 
you about was Hemingway's duplicate whist party which was pulled 
off last night. I had a bid, and as there was nothing else stirring, 
I put on that boy's size dress suit of mine, and blew out there. 
Jim, you know the signs you see on the dummies in front of these 
little Yiddisher stores, "Take me home for $io.98," or "I used 
to be $6.21, now I'm yours for $3.39." Well, that's your Uncle 
Bill in a dress suit. Every one takes me for a waiter.

I have just been thinking this society push over, and I have 
come to the conclusion that an active leader in society has more 
troubles than a man in the wheat pit, and a man in the wheat pit 
is long on troubles about as often as he is on wheat. If you don't 
believe it, ask Joe Leiter. He was long on both at the same time.

Take the woman who uses fair English and has coin, and let her 
display the same good cold judgment that has made her husband 
successful in business, and some rainy Thursday morning the four 
hundred will wake up and find a new member has joined the order. 
While she is on her way she'll get many a frost, but after she 
lands she'll even up on the other candidates.

I have heard it said that locomotive engineers as a rule suffer 
from kidney troubles, caused by the jolting and bumping of the 
engine. If jolts and bumps go for anything, some of these people 
who are trying to break into society must have Bright's Disease 
something grievous.

Jim, if you have never been to a duplicate whist party, see some 
of those people play whist and then order your shroud. Last night 
for a partner I drew an old girl who was a Colonial Dame because 
her ancestors on both sides had worked on the Old Colony Railroad. 
She must have taken a foolish powder or something, just before she 
left home, as she was clean to the bad. She had to be called five 
minutes before each play, and the way she trumped my ace the first 
time around was enough to drive a person dippy. Once she mentioned 
her husband's diamond-studded airship. Poor old lady! Probably took 
a double dose by mistake. How careless!

Everybody was making a great fuss over some girl who is lecturing 
throughout the country on "Man as Woman Sees Him." Talk about 
lavish eyes. My boy! my boy! but this dame was there with the 
swell lamps. A hundred candle power easily. I tried to sit up 
to her, but there was nothing doing. I might have known I was a 
dead one. Because why? Because Mr. Percy Harold was talking to 
her, and he knows all about rare china, real old lace, and such 
things. When I came up the subject was Du Bois' Messe de Mariage. 
(Spelling not guaranteed.) I asked about it this morning, Jim. 
A Messe de Mariage seems to be some kind of a wedding march, and 
a bishop who is a real hot dog won't issue a certificate unless 
the band plays the Messe. Mr. Percy Harold kept right on talking 
about Jack Hayes being so desperately in love with Mrs. Hardy-
Steele, and how late they were getting home from the Opera the 
other night, and what a shame it was, as Mr. Steele seemed like 
such a nice fellow. There I stood like a Harlem goat. I couldn't 
cut in, because I have so many troubles of my own getting home 
from any place at all that I haven't time to keep tab on other 
people. I must be as slow getting onto a scandal as the injured 
husband. If 115,000 people know something about a woman, my 
number is 14,999, and the husband's number is 15,000. It seems 
strange, but the husband always seems to get wise last.

But to return to the girl with the electric eyes. I hung around in 
that sad dress suit like a big dub, hoping that the conversation 
would finally get switched to theaters or dogs or sparring, or 
something where I could make good, but Mr. Harold had the floor, 
and he certainly had me looking like a dirty deuce in a new deck. 
I stood for him till he suddenly exclaimed, "Oh, fudge!" because 
he had forgotten one of his rings, and there was where I took to 
the tall timbers. If I were a ring I wouldn't let a guy like that 
wear me. Now will you kindly tell me why it is that a girl will 
throw a good fellow down every time for one of those Lizzie boys? 
If I thought there were enough men in the country who feel as 
I do, I would start "The American Union for the Suppression of 
Lizzie Boys."

Well, I decided to get into my class, so I started for the 
smoking-room. I hadn't gone three feet till some woman held me 
up, and began telling me how she adored grand opera. I didn't 
even reply. I flew madly and remained hidden in the tall grasses 
of the smoking-room until it was time to go home. Jim, should 
any one ever tell you that grand opera is all right, he is either 
trying to even up, or he is not a true friend. I was over in New 
York with the family last winter, and they made me go with them 
to "Die Walkure" at the Metropolitan Opera House. When I got 
the tickets I asked the man's advice as to the best location. 
He said that all true lovers of music occupied the dress circle 
and balconies, and that he had some good center dress circle 
seats at three bones per. Here's a tip, Jim. If the box man ever 
hands you that true lover game, just reach in through the little 
hole and soak him in the solar for me. It's coming to him. I'll 
give you my word of honor we were a quarter of a mile from the 
stage. We went up in an elevator, were shown to our seats, and 
who was right behind us but my old pal Bud Hathaway from Chicago. 
Bud had his two sisters with him, and he gave me one sad look 
which said plainer than words, "So you're up against it, too, 
eh?" We introduced all hands around, and about nine o'clock the 
curtain went up. After we had waited fully ten minutes, out came 
a big, fat, greasy looking Dago with nothing on but a bear robe. 
He went over to the side of the stage, and sat down on a bum rock. 
It was plainly to be seen, even from my true lover's seat, that 
his bearlets was sorer than a dog about something. Presently in 
came a woman, and none of the true lovers seemed to know who she 
was. Some said it was Melba, others Nordica. Bud and I decided it 
was May Irwin. We were mistaken, though, as Irwin has this woman 
lashed to the mast at any time or place. As soon as Mike the 
Dago espied the dame it was all off. He rushed, and drove a 
straight-arm jab, which had it reached would have given him the 
purse. But Shifty Sadie wasn't there. She ducked, side-stepped, 
and landed a clever half-arm hook which seemed to stun the big 
fellow. They clinched, and swayed back and forth, growling 
continually, while the orchestra played this trembly 
Eliza-crossing-the-ice music. Jim, I'm not swelling this a bit. 
On the level, it happened just as I write it. All of a sudden 
some one seemed to win. They broke away, and ran wildly to the 
front of the stage with their arms outstretched, yelling to beat 
three of a kind. The band cut loose something fierce. The leader 
tore out about $9.00 worth of hair, and acted generally as though 
he had bats in his belfry. I thought sure the place would be 
pinched. It reminded me of Thirsty Thornton's dance-hall out in 
Merrill, Wisconsin, when the Silent Swede used to start a general 
survival of the fittest every time Mamie the Mink danced twice 
in succession with the young fellow from Albany, whose father 
owned the big mill up Rough River. Of course, this audience was 
perfectly orderly, and showed no intention whatever of cutting in, 
and there were no chairs or glasses in the air, but I am forced to 
admit that the opera had Thornton's faded for noise. I asked Bud 
what the trouble was, and he answered that I could search him. 
The audience apparently went wild. Everybody said "Simply sublime!" 
"Isn't it grand?" "Perfectly superb!" "Bravo!" etc., not because 
they really enjoyed it, but merely because they thought it was the 
proper thing to do. After that for three solid hours Rough House 
Mike and Shifty Sadie seemed to be apologizing to the audience 
for their disgraceful street brawl, which was honestly the only 
good thing in the show. Along about twelve o'clock I thought I 
would talk over old times with Bud, but when I turned his way I 
found my tried and trusty comrade "Asleep at the Switch."

At the finish the woman next to me, who seemed to be on, said that 
the main lady was dying. After it was too late, Mike seemed kind 
of sorry. He must have given her the knife, or the drops, because 
there wasn't a minute that he could look in on her according to the 
rules. He laid her out on the bum rock, they set off a lot of red 
fire for some unknown reason, and the curtain dropped at 12:25. 
Never again for my money. Far be it from me knocking, but any time 
I want noise I'll take to a boiler shop or a Union Station where 
I can understand what's coming off. I'm for a good mother show. 
Do you remember "The White Slave," Jim? Well, that's me. Wasn't 
it immense where the main lady spurned the leering villain's gold, 
and exclaimed with flashing eye, "Rags are royal raiment, when 
worn for virtue's sake." Great!