know.' I assented and dined with a Mr. and Mrs. John Hopper. The only blot on that very pleasant evening was the appearance of a puling infant who had to be kissed good night. I did so under compulsion; but, gentlemen, I would not kiss him to-night for all the gold ever mined in California. He stands before you," pointing to me.
The interrupter, it developed, was former Governor William T. Barnes.
Another old friend of my father has told me of an incident that would indicate that I come naturally by some of my frivolity. Sydney Howard Gay, the journalist, was a boon companion of my father.
Riding home from his office at Number 110 Broadway with Gay on a horse-drawn omnibus of the time, my father found the bus crowded to suffocation, as New York's public transportation vehicles always have been. The two of them plotted a hoax designed to empty the bus and provide them with seats. My father became a maniac, suddenly violent; Gay, his keeper. They played their rôles with such spirit that the bus was emptied of its passengers instanter—with one exception.
This exception, a frugal person who, having
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