I had a birthday in every week stand. System? Well, I should hope so, dear. We'd work it this way: Alla McSweeney and I were chumming together, and naturally Monday night after the show we would meet some folks. We would have a real nice time, and along about fourth highball time after the show Wednesday night Alla would whisper real confidential into one of the fellows' ear that I was going to be twenty-one Friday and "we girls" are planning to give her a little surprise, and did he want to come in on it. Every time the Johns would fall, except in Milwaukee, and nobody ever got anything out of that town anyway. Then Alla would whisper that the company was going to present me with a loving cup because I was such a good fellow, and if they wanted to chip in now was their chance, and anything was acceptable from $5 up, and to bring his friends. Alla would tout it up something fierce, I being totally unconscious to what was coming off. Friday night would come around and Alla would borrow the loving cup from the property man that the tenor used in the drinking number, put it under her shawl and caper over to the appointed cafe. I would be the center of a bunch of merry cut-ups all wanting to blow out the candles on my birthday cake. After the wine got to flowing freely and the crowd all jolly Alla would drag out the prop and make a nice little speech on behalf of the company. Me--you know I would be that flustered that I didn't know what to do, and when Alla would say that other people beside the members of the company had assisted I would be so gratified that I could scarce keep back the tears. All the clucks that hadn't chipped in would feel so bad because they weren't included in my outburst of gratitude that nine times out of ten they would sneak out and try to break into a jewelry store. Then Saturday Alla and I would do the great divide. Take it from me, when I came in off the road that season I had a roll of the evergreen that looked like a bundle of hall carpet. But now that I am an heiress I do not have to adopt those subterfuges in order to get the daily Java. But I couldn't work those stunts on my Wilbur; he's too wise, and being in the business he's hep to all that kind of work. He's a good, nice, honest fellow, as press agents go, and I think I can safely trust him with my innocent heart. If he don't--well, you know me. If he don't think he run up against the business end of a cyclone it will be because I got throat trouble and can't talk. Honest, my fair young brow is commencing to get wrinkled trying to dope out whether I want to become a bride or lead the free and easy life of a bachelor girl. Of course, if I get married and don't like it divorces are easy enough to get, and then being a widow saves a girl a whole lot of embarrassment, for she don't have to pretend to not understand some of the innuendoes that are now and then sprung during the modern conversations.