Knocking the Neighbors | Page 7

to come close and said: "I want a nice
Oyster Stew and some Sparkling Burgundy."
MORAL: A Delicacy is something not raised in the same County.
THE GALLOPING PILGRIM
A certain affluent Bachelor happened to be the only Grandson of a
rugged Early Settler who wore a Coon-Skip Cap and drank Corn Juice

out of a Jug. Away back in the Days when every Poor Man had Bacon
in the Smoke House, this Pioneer had been soaked in a Trade and found
himself loaded up with a Swamp Subdivision in the Edge of Town.
Fifty years later the City had spread two miles beyond the Swamp and
Grandson was submerged beneath so much Unearned Increment that he
began to speak with what sounded to him like an English Accent and
his Shirts were ordered from Paris.
On the 1st of every Month the Agents would crawl into the Presence of
the Grandson of the mighty Muskrat Hunter and dump before him a
Wagon- load of Paper Money which had been snatched away from the
struggling Shop-Keepers, who, in turn, had wheedled it from the people
who paid a Nickel apiece for Sunday Papers so as to look at the
Pictures of the Decorations in the Supper Room at the Assembly Ball
graced by the Presence of the aforesaid Bachelor whose Grandfather
had lifted the original Catfish out of the Chicago River.
Then the Representative of the Old Family would take a Garden Rake
and pattern all this hateful Currency into a neat Mound, after which a
milk-fed Secretary would iron it out and disinfect it and sprinkle it with
Lilac Water and tie it into artistic Packets using Old Gold Ribbon.
After that, it was Hard Lines for the Bachelor, because he had to sit by
a window at the Club and dope out some new Way of getting all that
Coin back into Circulation.
As a result of these Herculean Efforts to vaporize his Income, he found
himself at the age of 40 afflicted with Social Gastritis. He had gorged
himself with the Pleasures of this World until the sight of a Menu Card
gave him the Willies and the mere mention of Musical Comedy would
cause him to break down and Cry like a Child.
He had crossed the Atlantic so often that he no longer wished to sit at
the Captain's Table. He had rolled them high at Monte Carlo and
watched the Durbar at Delhi and taken Tea on the Terrace at
Shepheard's in Cairo and rickshawed through Japan and ridden the surf
in Honolulu, while his Name was a Household Word among the

Barmaids of the Ice Palace in London, otherwise known as the Savoy.
Occasionally he would return to his provincial Home to raise the Rents
on the Shop-Keepers and give out an Interview criticising the New
School of Politicians for trifling with Vested Interests and seeking to
disturb Existing Conditions.
Any time his Rake-Off was reduced from $10 a Minute to $9.98 he
would let out a Howl like a Prairie Wolf and call upon Mortimer, his
Man, for Sympathy.
After Twenty Years of getting up at Twilight to throw aside the
Pyjamas and take a Tub and ease himself into the Costume made
famous by John Drew, the Routine of buying Golden Pheasants and
Special Cuvee Vintages for almost-Ladies, preserved by Benzoate of
Soda and other Chemical Mysteries, began to lose its Sharp Zest.
In other Words, he was All In.
He was Track-Sore and Blase and full of Ongway. He had played the
whole String and found there was nothing to it and now he was ready to
retire to a Monastery and wear a Gunny-Sack Smoking Jacket and live
on Spinach.
The Vanities of the Night-World had got on his Nerves at last. Instead
of sitting 8 Feet away from an Imported Orchestra at 2 A. M. and
taunting his poor old Alimentary System with Sea Food, he began to
prefer to take a 10-Grain Sleeping Powder and fall back in the Alfalfa.
About Noon the next Day he would come up for Air, and in order to
kill the rest of the Day he would have to hunt up a Game of Auction
Bridge with three or four other gouty old Mavericks.
When the Carbons begin to burn low in the sputtering Arc Lights along
the Boulevard of Pleasure and the Night Wind cuts like a Chisel and
the Reveler finds his bright crimson Brannigan slowly dissolving into a
Bust Head, there is but one thing for a Wise Ike to do and that is to
Chop on the Festivities and beat it to a Rest Cure.

That is just what the well-fixed Bachelor decided to do.
He resolved to Marry and get away from the Bright Lights and lie
down somewhere