smokes vast number of cigarettes. Displays and feels
deep sympathy. Recalls, but faintly, that he has heard it on previous
occasions. They have an awfully good time. Part at last in front of
apartment house. "Good-night, old chap." "Good-night." Squeeze hands
hard. Kid has no information at all about kissing her good-night, but
don't even try. Noble youth. Wise youth. Kid goes home and smokes. Feels
strong desire to kill people who say intolerable things of the girl in
rows. "Narrow, mean, stupid, ignorant, damnable people." Contemplates
the broad, fine liberality of his experienced mind.

Kid and girl become very chumy. Kid like a brother. Listens to her
troubles. Takes her out to supper regularly and regularly. Chorus girls
now tacitly recognise him as the main guy. Sometimes, may be, girl's
mother sick. Can't go to supper. Kid always very noble. Understands
perfectly the probabilities of there being others. Lays for 'em, but
makes no discoveries. Begins to wonder whether he is a winner or whether
she is a girl of marvellous cleverness. Can't tell. Maintains himself
with dignity, however. Only occasionally inveighs against the men who
prey upon the girls of the stage. Still noble.

Time goes on. Kid grows less noble. Perhaps decides not to be noble at
all, or as little as he can. Still inveighs against the men who prey
upon the girls of the stage. Thinks the girl stunning. Wants to be dead
sure there are no others. Once suspects it, and immediately makes the
colossal mistake of his life. Takes the girl to task. Girl won't stand
it for a minute. Harangues him. Kid surrenders and pleads with
her--pleads with her. Kid's name is mud.

A POKER GAME.

Usually a poker game is a picture of peace. There is no drama so
low-voiced and serene and monotonous. If an amateur loser does not
softly curse, there is no orchestral support. Here is one of the most
exciting and absorbing occupations known to intelligent American
manhood; here a year's reflection is compressed into a moment of
thought; here the nerves may stand on end and scream to themselves, but
a tranquillity as from heaven is only interrupted by the click of chips.
The higher the stakes the more quiet the scene; this is a law that
applies everywhere save on the stage.

And yet sometimes in a poker game things happen. Everybody remembers the
celebrated corner on bay rum that was triumphantly consummated by Robert
F. Cinch, of Chicago, assisted by the United