And he had been studying for months; and that's where he was every afternoon, and not out with some blonde, and wouldn't tell me for fear he wouldn't get it!

And I'm going to dance alone at night until he comes back, and all day drive a truck or something to release a man. And that's the whole inside story of the split, which is now readily seen is not a fight at all, at least not yet for we got married at once.

So, only one thing more: Regarding that alligator, Ma decided he would be too hard to cook. So Jim took him to camp for a mascot, and by the time he got through there he learned to understand American--believe you me!

II

PRO BONEHEAD PUBLICO

I

AIN'T it remarkable the way the war has changed the way we look at a whole lot of things? Take wrist-watches for one. Before the military idea was going so strong on its present booking but a little while, wrist-watches had grabbed off a masculine standing for themselves, and six months before no real man would of been willingly found dead in one!

Then take newspapers! Oncet we used to look at them for news, and now we just look at them. It's kind of a nervous habit, I guess. And take simple little things like coal and sugar. Why once we paid no attention to them and now we look at them real respectful--when we see them.

Which leads me on to say that the war has brought us to look at a great many things we never even seen before, not if they was right under our noses. That's how I come to see that letter from the W.S.S.

Committee--and would to Heaven I had not, as the poet says. For although--believe you me--most of the mail order goods a person buys is pretty apt to be as rep. because why would a customer write again which had been stung once, and thrift stamps is no exception, it certainly will be a long time before I fall so easy for anything the postman slips me. Next time I'll recognize that his whistle is a note of warning to more than them which has unpaid bills, which I have not and so never listened for him.

Well, anyways, the time this little trouble maker reached my side, I had slipped into a simple little lounging suit of pink georgette pajamas, and was lying on the day-bed in a regular wallow of misery on account of wondering if Jim was dead on the gory fields of France, or was it only the censor--do you get me? I was laying there rubbing a little cold cream onto my nose and thinking how would it feel to be always able to do so without losing my husband's love, which, of course, would mean he had died at the front, when in comes Ma with a couple of letters. I give one shriek and sprung to my feet, like a regular small-time drama, and grabbed them off her, cold cream and all. And then slunk back upon the day-bed and despair when I seen they weren't from Jim. Ma stood there with her hands on her hips until she seen I wasn't going to break any bad news to her, when she left me in peace to read them. That is she meant to, but believe you me, it was far from it as Ma went into our all-paid-for gold furnished parlour and commenced playing on the pianola which Jim had give me for a souvenir before he sailed, and Ma, being sort of heavy and strong, after twenty-five years with a circus, she has a fierce touch.

Well, anyways, after she had got "Soft and Low" going strong with the loud pedal and no expression, I opened the first envelope. It was my copy of my new contract with Goldringer all signed and everything and calling for only twenty minutes of my first cla.s.s A-1 parlour dancing act in his new musical show at the Springtime Garden ent.i.tled "Go To It"

and which let all persons know that the party of the first part hereinafter called the manager was willing and able to pay Miss Marie La Tour, party of the second ditto, one thousand dollars a week. Which certainly was _some_ party to look foreward to and scarcely any work to speak of, a refined act like mine not calling for over three handsprings and some new steps, which is second nature to me and I generally make up a few every night for my own amus.e.m.e.nt same as some of those fellows which play the piano by hand--do you get me?

Well, anyways, when I had looked the contract over good and seen it really was, as I had before realized in the office, more than satisfactory, I salted it away in my toy safe which was nicely built into the mantel-piece for the greater convenience of burglars, and then I remembered the other envelope. All unsuspecting as a table d'hote guest, I opened the envelope, and then almost dropped dead.

It was from President Wilson!

Believe you me, I leaned up against the art-gray wall paper and prepared to faint after I had read the news. But instead of commencing, "I regret to inform you of the death in battle," or something like that, it started:

"THE WHITE HOUSE, "Washington, D. C.

"I earnestly appeal to every man, woman and child to pledge themselves to save constantly and to buy as regularly as possible the securities of the Government; and to do this as far as possible through membership in War Savings Societies.

"The man who buys War Savings Stamps transfers his purchasing power to the United States Government.

"May there be none unenlisted in the great volunteer army of production and saving here at home.

"WOODROW WILSON."

Woodrow Wilson! Signed--and addressed to _me!_ Of course it didn't exactly begin "Dear Miss La Tour" or anything like that, and he had signed it with a rubber stamp or something which I did not hold against him in the least, me realizing at once what a busy man he must be. But coming as it done instead of a death-notice which I had by this time fully expected after no letter for over a month, it got to me very strong. It made me feel all of a sudden that I was a pretty punk patriot lounging around in pink georgette pajamas which--believe you me--is no costume for war-work and felt like going right off and borrowing one of the gingham house-dresses which I have never been able to break Ma of, only, of course, it would of been too big and anyways what would I of done after I had it pinned around me? Which could be said of a whole lot of folks which were rushing into uniforms of their own inventing.

Well, anyways, after the first shock was over, I seen there was an enclosure with the President's letter. This was from some committee which had a big W.S.S. lable printed at the top and a piece out of the social register printed underneath, and was dated N. Y. It begun more personal.

"Dear Miss La Tour," it said. "As a woman so prominent in the theatrical world, we feel sure that you would be glad to take an active interest in the great Thrift movement which is now before the country. Will you not form a theatrical women's committee that will pledge the sale of twenty-five thousand dollars' worth of stamps on the first of the month?

The first of every month will be observed as Thrift Stamp Day, and we will be glad to furnish you with all literature, stamps, etc., if you will notify headquarters of your willingness to do this work."

The letter was signed by some guy which it was impossible to read his name because he hadn't used no rubber stamp but did it by hand and had other things on his mind. But did I care? I did not! Believe you me, I had already decided to do like he asked, and why would I need to know his name when I wasn't going to write to him anyways, but to Mr. Wilson?

Dancing as long as I have which is about fifteen years or since I could walk, pretty near, and not only professionally but drawing my own contracts from the time most sweet young things is thinking over their graduation dresses, I have learned one thing, if no other. Always do business with the boss. Refuse to talk to all office boys, get friendly with the lady stenographer, if there is one, but do all business with the one at the head--and no other! This motto has saved me no end of time which has been spent in healthy exercise under my own roof and Ma's eagle eye, which otherwise might have wore out the seats of outside-office chairs.

And so I concluded that I'd sit right down that minute and let Mr.

Wilson know I was on the job. I knew I had some writing paper someplace and after I had took a lot of powder and chamois and old asperin tablets out of the desk I dug it up:--a box of handsome velour-finish tinted slightly pink, with envelopes to match. And I got hold of a pen and some ink which Musette, my maid, had overlooked, she being a great writer to her young man which is French and Gawd knows how fluent she writes him in it, only of course being born over there certainly makes a difference.

Well, anyways, I cleaned off the desk and rubbed the cream off my nose and hands and set down to write that letter. And--believe you me--it was some job. I guess I must of commenced a dozen times and tore them up with formal openings--do you get me? And then I realized that the box of pink tinted was getting sort of low and I had better waste not want not, and so determined to just be natural in what I wrote but not take up his time with too long a letter. So at last I threw in the clutch, gave myself a little gas, and we was off, to this effect.

"My dear Mr. Wilson:--

"Many thanks for yours of the 25th inst. Will at once get busy at helping to make the first of the month savings day instead of unpaid-bill day.

"Cordially, "MARIE LA TOUR."

This seemed refined and to the point, and although I was awful tempted to put a P.S. asking did they know anything about Jim, I left off on account of me not believing in asking personal favors of the Government just now, as the war office was probably medium busy and the Censor might answer first, at that. So I just sealed it up as it was, and about then Ma left off playing on my souvenir and came in with a pink satin boudoir cap down tight over her head. Ma just can't seem to get over the idea that boudoir caps at five dollars and up per each is a sort of de lux housework garment.

"I'm just going in the kitchen and beat up a few cakes for lunch," said Ma, and withdrew, leaving me to lick on three cents and shoot the letter fatefully and finally down the drop near the gilt-bird-cage elevator of our home-like little flat. I felt awfully relieved and chesty somehow when it was done and with her good news ringing in my ears. For Ma is certainly some cook, and she has it all over our chef, who--believe you me--knows she would never be missed if she went although Ma simply can't learn to stay out of the kitchen. And while she was busy with the b.u.t.ter and eggs and sugar and wheat flour, I was deciding to call a committee, because I knew that was the way you generally start raising twenty-five thousand dollars worth of anything, except a personal note.

Committee meetings is comparative strangers to me except the White Kittens Annual Ball, and a few benefit performances which last is usually for the benefit of those which are to be in it, they leaving aside all consideration of the benefit of the audience much less of the charity it is supposed to be for, and the main idea being how long each actor can hold the spotlight. You may have noticed how these benefit performances runs on for hours.

Well, anyways, I having been to several such as of course the best known parlour dancing act in America and the world, like mine undoubtedly is, is never overlooked. And I knew we had to get a place with a big table and chairs set around it and then the committee was started. So the White Kittens always having met in the Grand Ball Room of the Palatial Hotel, I called up the place and hired the room for the next morning at twelve-thirty, me being determined that my Theatrical Ladies Committee should get there directly after breakfast. The cost of the room was one hundred dollars, and I didn't know was the Government to pay it or us, but I was, of course, willing to do it myself if necessary. Anyways it was a committee-room, I knew that by reason of my having sat in it as such at least twice each year since the place was built--way back in '13. Then all I had to do was get my committee.

I had just about dived for the telephone book to see who would I call up, when Ma come in, taking off the pink satin cap and wiping her face.

"I made a omlette," said Ma. "Come catch it before it falls!"

And so I called it the noon-whistle though some might of called it a day, and we went in and while we ate only a simple little lunch of the omlette (which we got at first base) and liver and bacon and cold roast beef and a few stewed prunes with the fresh cake, I told Ma about what had happened, and how I had already got after the job.

"Well, Mary Gilligan, you done the right thing!" said Ma. "And what kind of costume are you going to wear?"

"The notices don't say anything about a uniform," I explained to her.

"And I'm pretty sure you don't need any. This is the sort of thing our leading society swells are taking up so heavy," I says, "and to do it is not only patriotic but feminine to the core," I says.

"Will you have to stand on the street-corners and worry the life out of folks?" Ma wanted to know.

"Not much!" I says. "That stuff is for the hoi-poli and idle rich and kids and unemployed. That's where some of the new democracy comes in. Us with brains is to do the office work. Them with good hearts only can do theirselves and the country more service in the stores and street-cars selling something that don't belong to them," I says, "and--believe you me--I bet any American gets a funny sensation doing that little thing."

Ma looked real impressed for a minute, showing she hadn't any idea what I was talking about. Then she come back to her main idea with which she had started which you can bet she always does until she gets through with it her own self.

"Well, I think you ought to have something for a uniform," she says.

"Say a cap and maybe a trench coat!"

"I wouldn't wear no trench coat around the Forty-Second Street and Broadway trenches," I says. "I wouldn't actually have the nerve to insult the army like that!"

And Ma seen what I meant and said no more which it certainly is remarkable how good we get on for Mother and daughter.