ry Fox, with his two little pardners, the Millership Sisters, Flora
and Lillian ("Lillian is the one in yellow"), were playing at the New
Orleans Orpheum. As it was Mardi Gras week and everything was crowded,
Harry "doubled up" for the week with a Contortionist by the name of
Marseilles, and they took a large room with two beds in it.

It was Harry's first visit to New Orleans, and his first meeting with
the Contortionist. But the Contortionist was well acquainted, and after
the show Monday night he took Harry out to meet some of his friends.
Harry says he never met a man who knew so many bartenders in his life.
The result was that when Harry woke up in the morning he did not
remember going to bed.

Now all the beds in New Orleans have mosquito nets over them; this was
also a new wrinkle on Harry. And when he woke up it happened that his
face was right close up to this mosquito netting as it hung down at the
side of the bed. He opened his eyes, but he could not see; he winked
several times and shook his head; but it was no use; everything was
blurred to him; the fearful thought came to him,

"I am going blind; everything looks misty and blurred to me."

Cold chills began to run up and down his back at the horror of it; he
seemed paralyzed; he could not move. And then, from somewhere out in
that blur of misty light a voice said,

"Good morning."

Harry peered closer out through the mist before him, and after a
moment's search he gave a yell and started upright in the bed with a
scream of fright. For there, standing in the center of the room was the
Contortionist, "limbering up." He was standing with his toes pointing
toward Harry, but he had bent himself over backwards until his head was
way down between his legs, with his face sticking out through in front,
looking at Harry with a cheerful grin.

This was at eleven forty-five; at twelve ten Harry was over at the
office of a justice of the peace, taking the pledge.

THE ARTISTIC TEMPERAMENT

Some folks are of an artistic nature; some folks are satisfied if things
are useful, while others like to have them ornamental as well. A lady
friend of ours, up in New Hampshire, belongs to this latter class. She
likes to see things about the house look neat and pretty.

One of the things that grated on her artistic sense was the bath tub; it
held water all right, and it was clean enough; but it was a plain,
unpainted tin affair and she shuddered every time she lo