A gentleman about town, who stands well in business circles, had a high old time last night in a certain restaurant where he entertained at supper a couple of chorus ladies belonging to the comic opera company now in the city. Loud talking and breaking of dishes attracted some attention, but the matter was smoothed over, owing to the prominence of the gentleman referred to.
“You call that a joke, do you, you old reptile,” shrieked the excited lady. “I’m going home to mamma this evening and I’m going to stay there. Thought you’d fool me by cutting it out, did you? You sneaking, dissipated old snake you! I’ve got my trunk nicely packed and I’m going straight home—don’t you come near me!”
“Maria,” gasped the bewildered man. “I swear I—”
“Don’t add perjury to your crimes, sir!”
The man tried unsuccessfully to speak three or four times, and then grabbed his hat and ran downtown. Fifteen minutes later he came back bringing two new silk dress patterns, four pounds of caramels, and his bookkeeper and three clerks to prove that he was hard at work in the store on the night in question.
The affair was finally settled satisfactorily, but there is one Houston man who has no further curiosity about woman’s curiosity.
Journalistically Impossible
“Did you report that suicide as I told you to do last night?” asked the editor of the new reporter, a graduate of a school of journalism.
“I saw the corpse, sir, but found it impossible to write a description of the affair.”
“Why?”