S.
vice-consul at La Paz--a person who could not possibly have been
cognizant of half of them.
As for the adage quoted above, I take pleasure in puncturing it by
affirming that I read in a purely fictional story the other day the
line: "'Be it so,' said the policeman." Nothing so strange has yet
cropped out in Truth.
When H. Ferguson Hedges, millionaire promoter, investor and man-about-
New-York, turned his thoughts upon matters convivial, and word of it
went "down the line," bouncers took a precautionary turn at the Indian
clubs, waiters put ironstone china on his favourite tables, cab
drivers crowded close to the curbstone in front of all-night cafes,
and careful cashiers in his regular haunts charged up a few bottles to
his account by way of preface and introduction.
As a money power a one-millionaire is of small account in a city where
the man who cuts your slice of beef behind the free-lunch counter
rides to work in his own automobile. But Hedges spent his money as
lavishly, loudly and showily as though he were only a clerk
squandering a week's wages. And, after all, the bartender takes no
interest in your reserve fund. He would rather look you up on his
cash register than in Bradstreet.
On the evening that the material allegation of facts begins, Hedges
was bidding dull care begone in the company of five or six good
fellows--acquaintances and friends who had gathered in his wake.
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