of thirty-two forty at George's place. I wonder if this George
is on the level, because I'll swear I don't think I was in there
at all. I'll bet he stuck the forty on anyway. You know me, Jim;
I am one of those bright people who tries to keep up with a lot
of guys who have nothing to do but blow their coin. I stood around
yesterday and looked wise, and licked up about four high-balls;
then I kind of stretched. Whenever I give one of those little
stretches and swell up a bit that's a sign I am commencing to
get wealthy. I switched over and took a couple of gin fizzes,
and then it hit me I was richer than Jay Gould ever was; I had
the Rothschilds backed clear off the board; and I made William
H. Vanderbilt look like a hundred-to-one shot. You understand,
Jim, this was yesterday. I got a little red spot in each cheek,
and then I leaned over the bar and whispered, "Mr. Bartender,
break a bottle of that Pommery." Ordinarily I call the booze
clerk by his first name, but when you are cutting into the grape
at four dollars per, you always want to say Mr. Bartender, and
you should always whisper, or just nod your head each time you
open a new bottle, as it makes it appear as though you were
accustomed to ordering wine. You see, Jim, that's where I go off
my dip. That wine affair is an awful stunt for a fellow who makes
not over two thousand a year, carries ten thousand life, and rooms
in a flat that's fifteen a month stronger than he can stand. But
to continue, I lost the push I started out with, and got mixed
up with a fellow named Thorne, or Thorpe, or something like that,
and we got along great for a while. He knew a lot of fellows in
Boston that I did, and every time we struck a new mutual friend
we opened another bottle. I don't know just what the total
population of Boston is, but we must have known everybody there.
Finally Thorne got to crying because his mother had died. You