Judge — August 14, 1926 — page 10: what you’re looking at

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

JUDGE They Call It Hospitality De" you love to week-end with an energetic host? I don't... especially with Buldoon. The last but one of Buldoon’s week-ends al- most ruined me for life. Buldoon is one of those dumbellish dynamos who wants to see his guests actively merry for twenty-one hours of the day. This time he cracked the whip over us like a ringmaster at a circus. There were things to be seen and done on his great estate, and he was resolved that nobody should depart without going the entire route. “Come again,” he cried to me at the end of my last visit but one—‘‘you're the Life of the Party!”—‘Surely will!” I replied, but I determined, the next week-end, to surprise him and be the « i order to achieve which admirable ambition, I spent the three ensuing weeks in training. My next visit was more like a visitation. Entering, I gripped my host's hand like a long-inhibited boiler-maker. He certainly was surprised to feel his own bone-crusher limp a infant's in mine; but at the first sign of uneasiness and uncertainty that appeared in his eyes, I slapped him on the back with encouraging vigor: “Now, now, old man—don’t stand on ceremony. Make yourself at home! Don’t consider us as guests! Y'know I've always looked upon you as one of my own family!” I had hardly taken off my coat to “Yeh, just running down the country over the week-end sit down, when I got up again and removed my shirt. “What d’ye say, folks,” was my in- vitation to host and guests—“to a five-mile walk before dinner? I’m going; who'll join? Oh, come on; a little rain more or less doesn’t matter. We'll all put on bathing suits and goloshes. Don’t renege now. Don’t stand on ceremony! Make yourself at home. Let's take a big hike out into the mud!” Out into the mud we went—my whole-souled host (whose raincoat- of-arms is ne renegez pas!)—and the rest of the golosh-darned guests, who THE TELEGRAM “Car broke down—sorry we can’t be with you.” need a rest. would rather be out of life than out of the swim. However, we didn’t quite swim: though it zras sort of puddly. Whoop- sing it up all along the v we made lark of what might have been a pioneer’s hardship, and two hours later, when we were within a rock's throw of the house, I cried: “Now folks—what say to a good old- fashioned tipsy-turf fight before we go in, a whizbang swish-the-dirt match, such as is the quaint custom in the hill country of merry cashire? It’s a little rough, but it’s heaps of fun, and besides we all have to take a bath before we eat anyway! Everybody savvy? Pick your bog. boys and girls—lct ‘er go!” Whereat some one cheerily pasted mine host in the neck with a rather well-jelled roll of mud. Then the fun began . . . continued, and ended with the call to a somewhat delayed dinner. A few windows had been broken in the fracas, but this only added to the general merriment. “Make yourself at home,” I shouted to the host, a little later on while the dinner was in full swing. “Your soup is cold, but we're all in the family—ha-ha!” We all bridged after dinner; then danced till four, whereon the or- chestra stopped, and mine host started assigning us to our resting places. As usual when there is an overflow, I drew the billiard table; but “ha-ha,” was my response to my (Continued on page 30) a comicbooks.com