She's wild
for love of you. How have you been so blind?"
"But, my God," said Bob Hart, rising to his feet, "it's _too late_. It's
too late, I tell you, Sam; _it's too late_. It can't be. You must be
wrong. It's _impossible_. There's some mistake.
"She's crying for you," said the Tramp Juggler. "For love of you she's
fighting three, and calling your name so loud they don't dare to raise
the curtain. Wake up, man."
"For love of me?" said Bob Hart with staring eyes. "Don't I tell you
it's too late? It's too late, man. Why, _Cherry and I have been married
two years!_"
II
THE GOLD THAT GLITTERED
A story with a moral appended is like the bill of a mosquito. It bores
you, and then injects a stinging drop to irritate your conscience.
Therefore let us have the moral first and be done with it. All is not
gold that glitters, but it is a wise child that keeps the stopper in his
bottle of testing acid.
Where Broadway skirts the corner of the square presided over by George
the Veracious is the Little Rialto. Here stand the actors of that
quarter, and this is their shibboleth: "'Nit,' says I to Frohman, 'you
can't touch me for a kopeck less than two-fifty per,' and out I walks.
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