(No, girls, the cigars are not always straight, nor are they always made of straight tobacco—on the contrary! We presume that they were called "five-cent straights" because they were bought by people in straightened circumstances, in dire straits, so to speak.)
In happier days if we had dared to smoke five-centers around the office, we would have been subjected to nasty personal remarks from the other members of the staff. But nobody says anything now. They are smoking stogies themselves, or consorting with pipes of ill-repute. The Financial Editor in the room next door smokes a villainous briar that growls even at its owner. We hate to say this, but only the other day we put our hand too near it as it lay on his desk asleep, and it almost got our little finger.
Not only are we smoking cheaper cigars, but we are making them last longer. How do we do this? Easily, dear reader, easily. We don't light them, that's all! We bite the end off very carefully, and insert the cigar at a rakish angle in the middle of our expression, and carry it around like that for nearly an hour before we touch a match to it. That way two cigars can be made to do the work of six. The worst of lighting a cigar is that it becomes oxidized so quickly. After that it isn't any good, except possibly as tooth-powder.
Another economy we indulged in during last fall was the buying of a straw hat. Of course, it may at first seem rather late in the season for one to start in and buy a "boater." But we got this one for ninety-eight cents—a three-dollar hat, the salesman assured us. But more of that anon.
You see, we had met our old friend Bjones on the street, carrying under his arm a box about the size of those they crate oranges in.
"G'wan in and buy one before they're all sold," he gasped, "greatest bargain I ever saw!"
"But what are they?" we asked, displaying an indulgent interest by ceasing to twirl our silver-mounted cane—(yes, a present from a lady).
"Hats, of course—ninety-eight cents—worth three and a half or four! Just bought six of them. Everything going up—got to keep supplied, you know."
We never stopped to reflect that Bjones would take the next six years to wear those hats out, and that his wife would probably divorce him if he tried. In fact, that may have been part of his plan. But we caught the fever from him. We hunted up the store and rushed right in. There was a big table of sailor straws, with about thirty men grabbing them up and trying them on. The lot didn't contain our exact size, so we took the nearest we could get. It was a little small, and it sat up on our head in a way that suggested an amateur performance of "H.M.S. Pinafore." But it was a very nice hat. That is, we thought it a nice hat.
Candor, however, compels us to state that we showed it to a friend in the hat business whom we met while we were triumphantly carrying it home. We asked him if he didn't think it was a mighty nice hat.