dive for the epistle, thinking, perhaps, it is some word of
encouragement from Matt Grau. I tear open the envelope and pull out a
letter and out drops a piece of paper that could look like it meant
money. It's a cinch I beat it to the floor. It was a check. I staggered
against the gas stove I was so surprised; then I unfolded it and it was
made out to me. Can you beat that? To me, and in my real name, for one
hundred, count 'em, one hundred cold, hard Clearing House certificates.
The only thing that kept me from having a scene with myself was the fact
that I had drank up all my merry Yuletide gifts. Well, by and by, after
piping off the check, counting it, biting it, smelling it, I had sense
enough to look at the letter. This is going to be a long, sad tale, so
you had better--yes, that's it--a little more of the same. You see, it
was this way.

"Last season when I--thank goodness--when I was with a Broadway
production instead of a road show, a certain party, whom I had met while
out on the one-night stands the season before, came stampeding into town
and it fell upon my fair young shoulders to show him the sights.
Query--Did I show him the sights? Answer--Yes, I did show him the
sights. If there was any place we didn't see it was because you had to
have an introduction to get in.

"Then Edward became inoculated with an idea that it would be a good plan
to consume all the booze on Broadway, thereby preventing others from
living intemperate lives. Such a chance. You know the new tunnel
couldn't hold the reserve supply of liquids that can report for duty at
a minute's notice on the corner of Forty-second and Broadway. The first
time I got hep to those proceedings was when I received the glad tidings
over the phone from a hospital steward that a friend of mine was trying
to bite holes in the detention sheet and shrieking my name.