He enjoyed himself thoroughly up to half-past
ten. Songs about mothers-in-law, drunken wives, and wooden legs he
roared at heartily. At ten-thirty entered a well-known artiste who
was then giving a series of what he called 'Condensed Tragedies in
Verse.' At the first two my country friend chuckled hugely. The
third ran: 'Little boy; pair of skates: broken ice; heaven's
gates.' My friend turned white, rose hurriedly, and pushed his way
impatiently out of the house. I left myself some ten minutes later,
and by chance ran against him again in the bar of the 'Criterion,'
where he was drinking whisky rather copiously. 'I couldn't stand
that fool,' he explained to me in a husky voice. 'Truth is, my
youngest kid got drowned last winter skating. Don't see any sense
making fun of real trouble.'"
"I can cap your story with another," said the Philosopher. "Jim
sent me a couple of seats for one of his first nights a month or two
ago. They did not reach me till four o'clock in the afternoon. I
went down to the club to see if I could pick up anybody. The only
man there I knew at all was a rather quiet young fellow, a new
member.
Pages:
54
55
56
57
58
59
60
61
62
63
64
65
66
67
68
69
70
71
72
73
74
75
76
77
78