A few years ago Colonel Hal Corbett, one of my oldest friends, came up from the South to stay a week with me in New York. Three of us, all old cronies of his but all living in the North, met him at the train. At his suggestion we dropped into the café of the Imperial Hotel on Broadway. Hotels had cafés in those days, and Corbett was thirsty, he said. We lined up at the bar, facing a genial gentleman in a white jacket and a white apron. Now it so happened that at the moment all three of us, for one reason or another, were riding on the well-known water wagon—a circumstance of which Corbett was not aware and probably one which he had never dreamed could be possible. He turned to me: “What’s it going to be?” he asked genially. I said: “A glass of buttermilk.” He gave a start of surprise. But, like a true Kentucky gentleman, he did not voice his emotions. He turned to the second member of the group. “And what do you take?” he inquired hopefully. “Oh,” said Number 2, “I don’t want anything except a plain lemonade.” Corbett’s eyes widened as he waved his arm toward the third man. “And yours?” he inquired. “Mine is a ginger ale,” was the answer. Corbett faced front: “Mr. Barkeeper,” he said, “I’m going to be in the fashion while I’m here if it kills me. Give me a quart of blueing.” § 209 Advice from Expert Sources There used to be a ticket seller with the old Yankee Robertson circus who owned a big green parrot. The parrot’s perch swung from the roof of the ticket wagon and there the bird would sit just above her owner’s head. The ticket man had a line of patter which he constantly chanted as the patrons surged in front of his wicket twice on each week day of the season—before the afternoon performance and again before the evening performance. “Don’t shove, friends!” he would say. “Don’t crowd! Take your time. Give everybody a chance!” The parrot memorized this speech. She even learned to mimic her master’s exact tone. Repeating his admonition was a favorite part of her repertoire. One afternoon when business was over he went away, forgetting to close the slide on his window. When he returned a little later his pet was gone. Immediately he organized a search party to look for the truant bird. Half a mile distant from the show lot, in a field, he found Poll. She was reared back on the ground, practically featherless. About her circled and swirled a great flock of crows, cawing joyously. Every instant nearly, one of the crows, twisting out of the circle, would dart down and pluck a souvenir of green plumage from the disheveled alien. And each time this happened Poor Poll, in a beautiful imitation of her owner’s voice and accent would shriek out: “Don’t shove, friends! Don’t crowd! Take your time! Give everybody a chance!” § 210 A Seeker after Hidden Facts