his way into the
Safety Deposit Vaults via the Parlor Route.

A worthy Resolve and one often taken.

If a Friend of the People can capitalize his Vocal Cords, why should
not the little Brother of the Rich put his undying Nerve into the
Market and get what he can on it?

The Captain of Finance is usually owned, Body and Soul, by the other
Half of the Sketch. She may be a head bell-ringer in the D. A. R. or
the blue-pencil Queen of the Golden Pheasants, but in a vast majority
of cases she has not the Looks to back up the Title.

Even the Buckingham Palace manner and the Arctic Front cannot buffalo
the idle Spectator into overlooking the fact that she belongs to the
genus Quince.

She may not be a Beaut, but it is She who stands at the main entrance
to the Big Tent and tears off seat coupons.

Walter knew that if he wished to be mentioned all over town as a
Sure-Enough, his passport to the Inner Circle of Hot Potatoes would
have to be vised by Patroness No. 1.

He began to work in the Secret Service of the Chosen Few and was First
Aid to the Chaperons.

A Hard Life, say you? Not a tall--not a tall.

He was entirely surrounded by Fairy Lamps and sweet-smelling Flowers.

Life became a kaleidoscopic Aurora Borealis.

When the first Crash of Music came through the hothouse Palms, Walter
would be out on the Waxen Floor with his hair in a Braid.

Through the long watches of the night he played Blonde against Brunette
and then went home with his Time-Card bearing the official O.K.

He swam among the floating Hooks and side-stepped the Maternal Traps,
until the compilers of Marital Statistics had his name in the list
marked "Nothing Doing."

The Dope on him seemed to be that he was Immune and Jinx-Proof.

After he led one of them back to a Divan and fed her an Ice, it was a
case of "Good Night, Miss Mitchell."

Truly, a Bachelor flown with Insolence and Pride is the favorite Mark
for the Bow-and-Arrow Kid.

For every weather-beaten Beau and Ballroom Veteran there is waiting
somewhere in Ambuscade a keen little Diana with the right kind of
Ammunition.

One night he went to a Small Dance in his regular Henry Miller suit
and wearing a tired look around the Eyes. He counted these minor
Functions a dreadful Bore.

Over in a corner sat a half-portion Damosel who had come to town on a
Visit. Her name was Violet, and she looked the Part.

She didn't know who was running for President or what Miss Pankhurst
said