“I was.  I came; I saw; I conquered.  Or whatever whoever said it, did.  Jump in and I’ll tell you all about it.  Fine business.  I had more exciting events than ever appeared before under one canvas.  But never again.  You know when I started about ten days ago?  Trouble?  Why, I had more trouble than a manager with nine stars and one good dressing room.  And I had to leave Estelle, my maid, here at that.  I tried to get a stateroom, but nothing doing, so me for a berth with the common herd.  Train going along fine, about 3 in the morning me pounding my fair young ear in lower six, when all of a sudden.  Biff!  Mr. Engine slaps a cow in the back and the whole works deserts the track and the caboose I’m in slides over the bank, turns over on her side and dies, lower six at the bottom.  I get handed the following—­one suitcase, two pairs of shoes and a fat hardware salesman from upper five.  Not forgetting my womanly rights I turn loose a rebel yell and start to climb out of the opposite window with the kind assistance of the arm of the berth, the face of the fat salesman and a broken window, appearing as the Pink Pajama Girl on the side of the car that was at that time understudying the roof.

“When I got out I turned loose a couple more whoops on the clear morning air just to let them know that I was still on the job, and took a casual survey of the disaster.  Naturally our car was the goat and the only one that had gone wrong.  The fat salesman does the appearing act next, dragging his suitcase; waived formality and asked me if I would have a drink.  Me for the drink, and then I got him to climb back down and rescue the rest of my apparel, and I dressed standing up there on the side of the car, much to the edification of the train crew that were not busily engaged in assuring the other dames in the car that they were not dead.  By and by along comes another train, and they load us all in and we get to Chicago only about four hours late.  Me being that fatigued I rushed right up to the Sherman House, but there wasn’t a room vacant on the top floor, so I knew I would not feel at home there, so I go capering over to the Annex.

“Gee, but that Chicago is a bum town, and yet in Emporia they look upon it as a Mecca of pleasure.  The only pleasure I ever got there was trying to analyze the smells from the stock yards.  They don’t eat anything in Chicago but chop suey.  Did you ever shoot any of that junk into your system?  Them can have it that likes it; but never again for muh.  You get it in a little dish, and the blooming stuff smells as if it was some relation to a poultice; you eat it and then go home and chew all the enamel off the bed.  No, I don’t know what it is made of; if I did I wouldn’t eat it.  That’s the only thing Chicago is good for, chop suey and smells.  When they get through talking about the World’s Fair perhaps they will think up some new form of amusement.  I met a wop in Chicago, one of these real romantic kind that only grow there.  I was seated in a secluded corner of the ladies’ waiting room of the Annex, and he came up and asked me if I didn’t want to step in the Pompeian room and hear the waters of the fountain lapping up against the marble.  I told him I much preferred to be up against a bottle of wine and do the lapping myself.  He, with that true Chicago gallantry, said, ’Excuse me first, I want to ‘phone a friend.’