THE GRAND OPERA

BY BILLY BAXTER


Well, I decided to get into my class, so I started for the smoking-room.
I hadn't gone three feet till some woman held me up and began telling me
how she adored Grand Opera. I didn't even reply. I fled madly, and
remained hidden in the tall grasses of the smoking-room until it was
time to go home. Jim, should any one ever tell you that Grand Opera is
all right, he is either trying to even up or he is not a true friend. I
was over in New York with the family last winter, and they made me go
with them to _Die Walkure_ at the Metropolitan Opera House. When I got
the tickets I asked the man's advice as to the best location. He said
that all true lovers of music occupied the dress-circle and balconies,
and that he had some good center dress-circle seats at three bones per.
Here's a tip, Jim. If the box man ever hands you that true-lover game,
just reach in through the little hole and soak him in the solar for me.
It's coming to him. I'll give you my word of honor we were a quarter of
a mile from the stage. We went up in an elevator, were shown to our
seats, and who was right behind us but my old pal, Bud Hathaway, from
Chicago. Bud had his two sisters with him, and he gave me one sad look,
which said plainer than words, "So you're up against it, too, eh!" We
introduced all hands around, and about nine o'clock the curtain went up.
After we had waited fully ten minutes, out came a big, fat, greasy
looking Dago with nothing on but a bear robe. He went over to the side
of the stage and sat down on a bum rock. It was plainly to be seen, even
from my true lovers' seat, that his bearlets was sorer than a dog about
something. Presently in came a woman, and none of the true lovers seemed