Judge — March 4, 1916 — page 8: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

talking holiday “I beg your pardon!” “Well, that shows you’ve been well brought up. And just for apologizing I’m going to give youa free tip. Don’t bother with the trunk lines. It’s the main line what pays the dividends! . And now suppose we get a little service?” The Vision in Blue swept fluflily down the lobby, and a moment later the coldly aloof look leaped lightly from the back of the desk onto the deserted features of The Man in the Cutaway. The M in the Cutaway had an afternoon off. That always meant one of two things. A walk down Fifth Avenue and the pur- chase of three collars, or a walk down Fifth Avenue and the coughed explosively. The Man Behind the Counter suddenly A fashionable shade of annoyance crossed his face, and was smartly churlish. our pardon, but—can’t you sce I’m busy?” The Man in the Cutaway chuckled sardonically. “Yes—busy. I can’t look after everybody at once, you know. And as The Man in the Cutaway glared his speechless rage, The Man Behind the Counter turned with a captivating smile to The ion in Red. “T ought to have reported that fellow,” grumbled The Man in the Cutaway as he left the shop a few moments later and turned his steps toward the hotel. “These clerks treat a customer as if he were dirt—plain dirt!” And the same thing was happenir over on Broadway ard Harold Conway. The Better Job “You men are not so smart,” jeered the bachelor girl. “It takes you half an hour to sew on a button.” It de cknowledged the widower, who had sewed and been sewed for. “But that button never comes off.” purchase of three collars and a cravat. As the vesper hour drew near a display in a haber- dasher’s window lured him within. He was going to fly in the face of precedent. He would buy six collars and two cravats. So, with the careless air of a born flaneur, he approached The Man Behind the Counter. The Man Behind the Counter wore his sack suit fault- lessly. His linen was unimpeachable. As for the residu- ary details of his attire, it may be averred without mis- giving that they cleverly embodied the rarest elements of smart restraint. And his bearing matched his vestiture. The gesture with which he smoothed a perfectly creascless cravat would have won your instant admiration; no less the aspect of the eye, aloof and mildly rebukeful, out of which he surveyed his landscape of silk. The Man in the Cutaway was about to open his mouth—a solemn proceeding, by the way—when The Vision in Red swept down the center aisle and per- formed what Webster describes as contraction of the features expressive of pleasure. And this particular contraction came as near being perfect as good taste will permit. The aforesaid air of elegant detachment was scen to drop painlessly behind the counter. The mouth relaxed and the eye melted. Time became a phantom. Meanwhile The Man in the Cutaway waited—and waited. And waited. His resentment grew with cach overheard confidence, each deprecating laugh. Finally he Mr. Newwed—War is hell, isn’t it? Mrs. Newwed—It's worse. million soldiers, all smoking cigarettes ! comicbooks.com