Billy Baxters Letters | Page 7

He was dropping his r's like a Southerner, and you know how much of a Southerner Johnny is--Johnstown, Pa.; and he was hollering around about his little three-year-old, standard-bred, and registered bay mare out of Highland Belle, by Homer Wilkes, with a mark of twenty-one, that could out-trot any thing of her age that ever champed a bit. Did you get that, Jim? That ever champed a bit; and still he said at noon to-day that he had had two, possibly three, glasses of wine, but no more. The only way that mare of Johnny's can go a mile in twenty-one is "In the Baggage Coach Ahead."
Say, Jim, I've never said much about it, but you let any of these fellows who own horses get a soak on, and they get to be a kind of a village pest, with their talk about blowing up in the stretch, shoe blisters on the left forearm, etc. Now, since when did a horse get an arm? They have got me winging. I can't follow them at all.
But to return to last night. When Johnny threw that thing at me about champing the bit, it was all off to Buffalo with little Will. I went out of business right there.
When I got up this morning I had to ask the bellboy what hotel I was in. I'll see the fellows to-night, and they'll all tell me how dirty my face was, and what I called so and so, and make me feel as bad as they possibly can. It's a wonder a fellow doesn't get used to that, but I never do; I feel meaner each time. Guess I'll take the veil.
Don't fail to come down Saturday. Several of us are going yachting on the Ohio River. It will be lovely billiards.
Yours as ever,
Billy.
P. S.--Do you know anything about that George's place?
Horse Sense
Sometimes you eat too much, sometimes you drink too much, and sometimes you do both. In any event, you feel like the very old scratch the next morning. Too much liquor overheats the blood. Too much food, and the liver goes on a strike. The first remedy which should suggest itself is a purgative which will act on the liver, and cleanse the system of all the indigestible junk with which it has been overtaxed. This is positively the foundation for permanent relief. The next thing is to cool the blood. Now, isn't it common horse sense?
Think it over.
The R--R-- is the only water which acts on the liver. It's base is sodium phosphate.
The R--R-- is the only water which cools the blood, Overheated blood is what causes the pressure on the head.
The R--R-- is the only pleasant-tasting aperient water of any strength on the market to-day.
We have stumbled onto a good thing, and we've got the money to push it.
You remember the man who at breakfast said: "Waiter, bring me about ten grains of oatmeal, and put stickers on it so that it will stay down; and say, waiter, please look as pleasant as possible, for I feel like h--l."
Well, that's how a person's stomach gets some mornings.
If you are going to drink an aperient, why try to force down a water that is warm, and tastes like a lot of bad eggs, doesn't touch your liver, and won't cool your blood, when you can get the R--R--, cold and sparkling and pleasant, which will do all these things?
If you are annoyed with constipation, stomach or liver trouble, use as your system dictates, and see bow much better you feel. It can't hurt you. Best before breakfast.

IN SOCIETY
Preface
In presenting "In Society," we are confident of success. Upon "One Night" comment is unnecessary. A bona fide demand for nearly 250,000 copies in less than three months speaks for itself. In inclosing stamps for books, our men readers who will join the "Union" mentioned on page 36 will so state. No names attached to such communications will be published. The partial description of the Grand Opera "Die Walkure" in this book is given precisely as it occurred; and although the up-to-date slang used might suggest exaggeration, such is really not the case. Again we ask that your name be written plainly. This caution is not addressed to the women. We have given up all hope of ever getting a readable signature from a woman. Don't think for a moment that we have anything against the women. Heaven forbid! We merely say that if there is a woman in the United States who can write plainly, that particular woman hasn't written us yet.
In Society
Pittsburg, Pa., Feb. 1, 1899.
Dear Jim:
There is no new scandal worth mentioning. What I started to write you about was Hemingway's duplicate whist party which was pulled off last night. I had a bid, and as there was nothing else