The doctors say that begging is a disease, and I notice everybody has a “touch” of it. Why, I believe there are more beggars in this town than there are prohibitionists in Milwaukee. Why, all the boxers in China are a Sweet Caporal guard along side the soldiers of misfortune I met that night. I made a detour around the courthouse to avoid their left flank, but I was confronted by the enemy’s center, which advanced toward me and occupied a strong position on [local street.] They were commanded by a blind man with a picture of his finish on a sixteen-inch hand-organ. With this he was doing great execution—to the music. Among the wounded were the “Wild Irish Rose,” “She Is a Sensible Girl,” “My Rainbow Coon,” “Whistling Rufus” and a “Bird in a Gilded Cage.” “The Georgia Camp-Meeting” was also badly broken up. My retreat being cut off by their right flank, which moved around to cop me at [local store] kopje, I decided to cut my way through the center and encounter the enemy en masse, en massay, en massee—well, in great big juicy bunches. One of the enemy approached me; as [local writer] would say, he was brimful of the bibulous effervescence of concentrated outpourings of the intellectual excrescences resulting from the imbibition of infinitesimal—well, he was drunk. He started a spirited argument with me. I scented trouble, and observing trouble—I mean a copper—I gave him a cent. He gave me several scents and I almost lost my senses. He tried to thank me but I told him not to breathe a word of it. Then a deah little child came up to mah and spoke to mah. She said she was a long way from home. Her aunt had given her three cents to chase herself to the parental roof—to ride home on—and she lost the money. Seeing she was but a little child (under 12 years), I thought it was only half fare, so I put her on the car. At this point the organ-grinder with a monkey began a disturbance on the corner. One man declared he ought to be “pinched.” I said: “Certainly not.” He asked: “Why not?” I said: “He is a human being and has a perfect right to use his own organ.” He says: “Yes, as long as he doesn’t monkey with anybody else’s.” I will now beg leave to change the subject, and tell you about the dinner party I mentioned seven minutes ago. Well, no sooner had I arrived at my destination than I was greeted by the hostess, who said: “Why, how do you do? Won’t you recite something?” You know they think an actor is just like a slot-machine. You throw in a meal and out comes a stunt. Well, I didn’t like the meal very well, so I sung them a song. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ _The_ Pacific Slop By Harry L. Newton [Copyright MCMIII by Will Rossiter]