Old Dennie O’Brion had looked upon the wine when it was red in the cup so long that he was about down and out; no one would hire him any more, even in the most menial capacity. His poor, hard-working wife had at last taken the pledge not to support him any longer in idleness, so it was up to Dennie to do something desperate. The most desperate thing he could think of was to swear off. So before the priest he took a solemn vow not to touch a drop of liquor for one year.

And he managed to retain his seat on the wagon splendidly for thirty-six hours.

On the evening of the second day Mrs. O’Brion, in appreciation of his desperate efforts to conquer the demon rum, took Dennie and their twelve-year-old-son Mickie to the theater. It was a rollicking, up-to-date, musical comedy. The boys and the girls of the chorus at the rise of the curtain gayly quaffed huge quantities of imaginary wine from near-golden goblets. The Comedian was a jolly, jovial souse who never, during the first two acts, got sober but once, and then got into trouble by it.

The first act took place in a Parisian cafe, where the chorus men were all American millionaires buying wine for the Chorus Ladies.

The second act took place in a brewery, where the Comedian fell into a beer vat and was only saved by the number of champaign corks he had in his pockets, which acted as life preservers.

’Twas a fine play to take a man to who was only thirty-six hours on the water wagon.

At the end of the second act, when the Comedian had just been rescued from the beer vat, Dennie scrambled to his feet and began climbing for the aisle.

“Where are ye’s goin’, Dinnie?” asked Mrs. O’Brion anxiously.

“Let go me tail,” says Dennie. “Me foot’s asleep; I must get out.” And tearing his coat-tail away he hurried up the aisle.

“Mickie, darlin’,” said Mrs. O’Brion to her young hopeful, “follow your father! Don’t let him get into a saloon! And if he does, stick to him! Bring him home! Hurry, now.”

Mickie hurried out and caught the old man just as he was making the swinging doors.

“Here, Father, Father, come out av that!” he cried, catching Dennie by that muchly pulled coat-tail.

“Oh, to h wit you!” says Dennie. “Go back to your mother!”

“But, Father, you promised the priest! You took a solemn vow not to touch liquor for a whole year.”

“What av it?” says Dennie.

“Well, the year is not up,” says Mickie.

“G’an!” says Dennie. “Go back to school! read your program! Look,” and Dennie pointed to the program which he still clasped in his hand; “read that! ‘Two years elapses between the second and third acts.’”

Leaving the dumbfounded Mickie there on the sidewalk, Dennie hurried into the saloon; but he did not hurry out. Meanwhile Mrs. O’Brion went home and Mickie waited at the door.

An hour later Dennie came out endways. With a number nine boot just behind him. Mickie tenderly assisted his father to his feet and started him homeward. Dennie had now reached the crying stage; nobody loved him; he thought he should commit suicide; in the morning.

Now it so happened that on this night the Salvation Army were conducting an all-night session at their barracks. Dennie and Mickie had to pass these barracks on their way home. The lights and the music caught Dennie’s wandering attention, and he insisted on going in. Mickie tried to tell him that it was no place for him, a good Catholic, but Dennie shook off his detaining hands and staggered into the hall, down the center aisle, tripped over an umbrella handle, and fell flat on his face right up against the platform. Mickie meanwhile stood back near the door horror-stricken.

The old, white-haired officer who was speaking as Dennie made his unexpected appearance at his feet, was quick to seize the opportunity and he delivered a beautiful and touching oration on the Heavenly hand that had guided the feet of this poor erring brother here to the Throne of Grace, and he finished up by saying,

“And now, brothers and sisters, let us all rise and sing that beautiful hymn, ‘The Old Ship of Zion.’”

Three minutes afterwards little Mickie burst into his own home and threw himself into his mother’s arms, sobbing as if his heart was breaking.

“What is it, me darlin’; what is the matter? Where is your father?”

“He’s dead; he’s dead,” sobbed Mickie. “He wint into the Salvation Army, and he fell onto the flure, and they all stood up and begun to sing ’The Ould Mick Is Dyin’!’”

From a letter published in The Player:

“The theater is a dump, owing to the unsanitary condition of the house and management.”

Little Miss Muffet
Sat down on a tuffet
In Churchill’s new Cafe.
A Pittsburger spied ’er
And sat down beside ’er
And they couldn’t drive Miss Muffet away.

Special attention is called to the fact that this is the only collection of stories about actor folks ever published, that does not have the one about the man in the spiked shoes stepping on the actor’s meal ticket.

From an English Theatrical paper I clip the following names:

Price & Revost; Bumps the Bumps.
Niagara & Falls; French Acrobats.
Boston & Philadelphia.
Merry & Glad.
Willie Stoppit.

Nat Haines was playing poker; Laloo was one of the players. Laloo was a freak that came to this country some years ago, and at one time commanded a salary of a thousand dollars a week. He was a very handsome young fellow, but had growing out from his breast the body of a small female. He had no muscular control of this secondary body, but could take hold of its hands and arms and work them all about.

After they had been playing a while Nat discovered that Laloo was cheating; he said nothing at the time, simply throwing his hand down and passing out. But when the hand was over and some one else was dealing, Nat leaned over to Laloo and said,

“Say, Kid; you do that again and I’ll give your sister a kick in the neck.”