"O, the Andrews Brothers, they'll be there,
Wid good se-gyars and wine to sphare,--
They'll treat us here on fine champagne,
And whin we're there they'll treat us again."


The applause here was vociferous, and only
discontinued when a box of Havanas stood open on the
table. During the momentary lull thus occasioned,
I caught the Major's twinkling eyes glancing evasively
toward me, as he leaned whispering some further
instructions to Tommy, who again took up his
desultory ballad, while I turned and fled for the
street, catching, however, as I went, and high above
the laughter of the crowd, the satire of this quatrain
to its latest line.

"But R-R-Riley he'll not go, I guess,
Lest he'd get lost in the wil-der-ness,
And so in the city he will shtop
For to curl his hair in the barber shop."


It was after six when I reached the hotel, but I
had my hair trimmed before I went in to supper.
The style of trimming adopted then I still rigidly
adhere to, and call it "the Tommy Stafford stubble-
crop."