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of the stage, but Mrs. Jolson’s bridegroom is not satisfied with himself.
“My humor’s gone,” he moans. “They knocked down a scene and my jokes went with it. And then that girl — you know, Frank — just as I was going on, stopped me to know if she was going to get that ten dollar raise. I can’t think of jokes when I’m reminded of money. You know, I’m no Will Rogers; jokes don’t come to me one a minute. Say, did you see what the critic of the New York Times said about Frank Tinney being funnier to him than Wynn, Errol, Cantor, Stone, Rogers and Jolson all put together? I wanted to answer that. Oh, it was all right for me. But not for Rogers. He’s the wittiest man in the world.”
Without a word concerning them, without a look at them, Jolson signs some eight or ten checks which the faithful Frank has been filling out. “I’ll bet my wife says I’m rotten tonight,” he sighs as he signs. — “Hello, Gimpey!” he cries with returning life, addressing a youth in the door, whose rakish slant suggests race tracks, faro banks, song publishment, politics and case goods. And to my great delight I am privileged to shake the hand of Colonel Gimp.
“My favorite gunman,” says Jolson, confidentially. “If there’s anybody you want bumped off, he’s a friend as is a friend. — Did you see the missus out in front, Colonel? Yes, looking fine — daring me to make good. She’s got two regular seats, paid for plus Couthoui and everything. — Say, Frank, don’t forget to telephone tonight to Mrs. Jolson in San Francisco. — That’s Mrs. Jolson number one. She writes to Frank. — Be sure you tell her I say not to sell the place. And those deer heads — tell her to keep ’em. — Trophies of some shooting I did in Mendocino. — And you find out if there’s anything she needs ; and she can have it — any