Ades Fables | Page 4

a
House as big as a Hospital. The Hallways were cluttered with
whispering Servants of the most immaculate and grovelling Description.
His Wife and the Daughter and the Cigarette-Holder she had picked up
in Europe figured in the Gay Life of the Nation's Capital every Night
and went to see a Nerve Specialist every Day. The whole Bunch rode
gaily on the Top Wave of the Social Swim, with a Terrapin as an
Escort and a squad of Canvas-Back Ducks as Body-Guard.
Notwithstanding all which, Father was the sorest Hard-Shell that
motored along Pennsylvania Avenue.

The Dime Denouncers printed his Picture, saying that he was owned by
the Interests and hated the sight of a Poor Working Girl. When the
High Class continuous Show in the Senate Chamber showed signs of
flopping and the Press Gallery became impatient, some Alkali
Statesman of the New School would arise in his Place and give our
Hero a Turning- Over, concluding with a faithful Pen-Picture of the
Dishonored Grave marked by a single Headstone, chiseled as follows:
"Here lies a Burglar."
When he went traveling, he had his Food smuggled into the
Drawing-Room. He knew if he went drilling through the Pullmans,
some of the Passengers who had seen the Cartoons might recognize
him as the notorious Malefactor.
One day, while he was cowering in a dark corner of his Club to get
away from the pesky Reporters, he was joined by the Trouble-Maker.
"I gave you the wrong Steer," said Ambition, now much subdued. "You
are in Dutch. Beat it! All the Rough-Necks down by the Round-House
and the fretful Simps along every R. F. D. Route are getting ready to
interfere in the Affairs of Government. The Storm Clouds of Anarchy
are lowering. In other words, the new Primary Law has begun to do
business. Every downtrodden Mokus owing $800 on a $500 House is
honing for a Chance to Hand It to somebody wearing a Seal-Skin
Overcoat. From now on, seek Contentment, Rural Quietude, and a
cinch Rate of 5 Per Cent. on all your Holdings."
So Ambition, after leading him hither and yon, finally conducted him
to the swell Country House surrounded by Oaks and winding Drives
and Sunken Gardens.
Far from the Hurly-Burly he settled down among his Boston Terriers
and Orchids and Talking-Machines and allowed Old Age to ripen and
mellow him into a Patriarch of the benevolent Pattern.
At the suggestion of an expensive Specialist, he went in for Golf. After
he had learned to Follow Through and keep within 100 yards of the
Fair Green, he happened to get mixed up in a Twosome one day with a

walking Rameses who had graduated from the Stock Exchange soon
after the Crime of '73. This doddering Shell of Humanity looked as if a
High Wind would blow him into the Crick. When he swung at the Pill,
you expected to hear something Snap.
Our Hero had about 10 Years on the Ancient, and it looked like a
Compote. But the Antique managed to totter around the Course,
playing short but safe, always getting Direction and keeping away from
the Profanity Pits.
He never caught up with Colonel Bogey, but he had enough Class to
trim our Hero and collect 6 Balls.
Ambition rode home with the unhappy Loser in the $12,000 Limousine.
"Buck up, Old Top," said the faithful Prompter. "Fasten your Eye on
the Ball and don't try to Force. He is sure to blow up sooner or later.
Take another Lesson to-morrow morning and then publish your Defi in
the afternoon."
He never had been strong enough to stand off Ambition. So the next
Day he took on Old Sure-Thing again and got it in the same Place.
No wonder. The Octogenarian was of Scotch Descent. He was the
Color of an Army Saddle. He never smiled except when the Kilties
came on tour. His Nippie consisted of a tall Glass about half full and
then a little Well Water.
A plain American Business Man with a York State Ancestry had a fat
Chance against this Caledonian frame-up.
But that same persistent Ambition kept sending him back to the Ring to
take another Trouncing.
One day he failed to show up at the Club House. The Trained Nurse,
who fanned him during the final Hours, never suspected. But the
Caddy- Master knew that he had died of a Broken Heart.
MORAL: Those who travel the hardest are not always the first to

arrive.
THE NEW FABLE OF THE SPEEDY SPRITE
One Monday Morning a range and well-conditioned Elfin of the Young
Unmarried Set, yclept Loretta, emerged into the Sunlight and hit the
Concrete Path with a ringing Heel.
This uncrowned Empress of the 18th Ward was a she-Progressive
assaying 98 per cent. pure Ginger.
Instead of trailing