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