eatures of the roof garden is the waiter, who stands
directly in front of you whenever anything interesting transpires on the
stage. This waiter is three hundred feet high and seventy-two feet wide.
His finger can block your view of the golden-haired _soubrette_, and
when he waves his arm the stage disappears as if by a miracle. What
particularly fascinates you is his lack of self-appreciation. He doesn't
know that his length over all is three hundred feet, and that his beam
is seventy-two feet. He only knows that while the golden-haired
_soubrette_ is singing her first verse he is depositing beer on the
table before some thirsty New Yorkers. He only knows that during the
third verse the thirsty New Yorkers object to the roof-garden prices. He
does not know that behind him are some fifty citizens who ordinarily
would not give three whoops to see the golden-haired _soubrette_, but
who, under these particular circumstances, are kept from swift
assassination by sheer force of the human will. He gives an impressive
exhibition of a man who is regardless of consequences, oblivious to
everything save his task, which is to provide beer. Some day there may
be a wholesale massacre of roof-garden waiters, but they will die with
astonished faces and with questions on their lips. Skulls so steadfastly
opaque defy axes, or any of the other methods which the populace
occasionally use to cure colossal stupidity.

Between numbers on an ordinary roof-garden programme, the orchestra
sometimes plays what the more enlightened and wary citizens of the town
call a "beer overture." But, for reasons which no civil service
commission could give, the waiter does not choose this time to serve the
thirsty. No; he waits until the golden-haired _soubrette_ appears, he
waits until the haggard audience has goaded itself into some interest in
the proceedings. Then he gets under way. Then he comes forth and blots
out the stage. In case of war, all roof-garden waiters should be
recruited in a special regiment and sent out in advance of everything.
There is a peculiar quality of bullet-proofness about them which would
turn a projectile pale.

If you have strategy enough in your soul you may gain furtive glimpses
of the stage, despite the efforts of the waiters, and then, with
something to engage the attention when the attention grows weary of the
mystic wind, the flashing yellow lights, the music, and the undertone of
the far street's roar, you should be