the Parlor Route.

   A worthy Resolve and one often taken.

   If a Friend of the People can capitalize his Vocal Cords, why should not the little Brother of the Rich put his undying Nerve into the Market and get what he can on it?

   The Captain of Finance is usually owned, Body and Soul, by the other Half of the Sketch. She may be a head bell-ringer in the D. A. R. or the blue-pencil Queen of the Golden Pheasants, but in a vast majority of cases she has not the Looks to back up the Title.

   Even the Buckingham Palace manner and the Arctic Front cannot buffalo the idle Spectator into overlooking the fact that she belongs to the genus Quince.

   She may not be a Beaut, but it is She who stands at the main entrance to the Big Tent and tears off seat coupons.

   Walter knew that if he wished to be mentioned all over town as a Sure-Enough, his passport to the Inner Circle of Hot Potatoes would have to be viséd by Patroness No. 1.

   He began to work in the Secret Service of the Chosen Few and was First Aid to the Chaperons.

   A Hard Life, say you? Not a tall—not a tall.

   He was entirely surrounded by Fairy Lamps and sweet-smelling Flowers.

   Life became a kaleidoscopic Aurora Borealis.

   When the first Crash of Music came through the hothouse Palms, Walter would be out on the Waxen Floor with his hair in a Braid.

   Through the long watches of the night he played Blonde against Brunette and then went home with his Time-Card bearing the official O.K.

   He swam among the floating Hooks and side-stepped the Maternal Traps, until the compilers of Marital Statistics had his name in the list marked "Nothing Doing."

   The Dope on him seemed to be that he was Immune and Jinx-Proof.

   After he led one of them back to a Divan and fed her an Ice, it was a case of "Good Night, Miss Mitchell."

   Truly, a Bachelor flown with Insolence and Pride is the favorite Mark for the Bow-and-Arrow Kid.

   For every weather-beaten Beau and Ballroom Veteran there is 

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