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!

"The White Slave" has "Die Walkure" beaten to a pulp, and they
don't get to you for three cases gate money, either.

Say, Jim, if you ever happen to be hunting around for a real true
old sport, don't overlook General Hemingway, last evening's host.
When it comes to warm propositions he is certainly the bell cow.
They all follow him. He is one of those fat, bald headed old boys
who at one time has had the smallpox so badly that he looks as
though he had lost a lot of settings out of his face. He hustled
for about twenty years, harnessed up a bunch of money, and now his
life is one continual crimson sunset. Some people know when they
have enough, but when the old general has enough he doesn't know
anything. Smoke up! Jim, I didn't get that one myself the first
time I heard it. Every time the general gets lit up, he places his
arm around your shoulder, puts his face close to yours, blows ashes
in your eyes, and tells you confidentially, so that every one in