She finished seventh.
I should say that blue-eyed boy was looking for a job the next day, but I’m not fortune teller enough to know whether he connected or not.
TRAINING AN OLD SPORT
Come and listen to the siren song of the New York girl, and perhaps it may interest you for awhile. There is no question about it unless you are a bronze statue standing on a gray stone pedestal in some park, or a cigar store Indian with an Hebraic nose and a wooden tomahawk. In the first place the New York girl has been conceded to be a wonder and about the best in the world in looks as well as in figure. She has a fine complexion when she gives it a chance to show itself, and, like the little girl in the story book, when she’s good she’s very, very good, and when she’s bad she’s a peach. The thing is to pick out the right one, and your chances for that are just as good as drawing to a pair in poker. Some say it’s luck, while others favor the science idea.
With that for an overture, let’s ring the bell for the curtain to go up on the charming little two-act play, entitled “The Redemption of a Sport.”
The Old Sport has been up against every proposition the sun ever shone on, and there was nothing he wasn’t fly to. He had paid board for blondes and brunettes as well as a few Leslie Carters, to say nothing of an Albino he once took a fancy to. He was an early and late bird, and he was known up and down the line by his first name, which is a distinction that it usually takes a lot of money or a number of years, and sometimes both, to acquire, and even then it’s not a lead pipe cinch that you’ll land it right.
A light flashed out on the landing and revealed the figure of a beautiful woman