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A PLEASANT EVENING.

"Et pis, doucett'ment on s'endort,
On fait sa carne, on fait sa sorgue,
On ronfle, et, comme un tuyau d'orgue,
L'tuyau s'met à ronfler pus fort.

ARISTIDE BRUANT.

A PLEASANT EVENING.

A

I.

S I stepped upon the platform of a Broadway cable-car at Forty-second Street, somebody said; "hello, Hilton, Jamison's looking for you."

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Hello, Curtis," I replied, "what does Jamison want?"

"He wants to know what you 've been doing all the week," said Curtis, hanging desperately to the railing as the car lurched forward; "he says you seem to think that the Manhattan Illustrated Weekly was created for the sole purpose of providing salary and vacations for you."

"The shifty old tom-cat!" I said, indignantly, "he knows well enough where I've been. Vacation! Does he think the State Camp in June is a snap ?"

"Oh," said Curtis, "you 've been to Peekskill?"

"I should say so," I replied, my wrath rising as I thought of my assignment.

'Hot?" inquired Curtis, dreamily.

20

"One hundred and three in the shade," I answered. "Jamison wanted three full pages and three half pages, all for process work, and a lot of line drawings into the bargain. I could have faked them-I wish I had. I was fool enough to hustle and break my neck to get some honest drawings, and that 's the thanks I get !"

"Did you have a camera?"

"No. I will next time I'll waste no more conscientious work on Jamison," I said sulkily.

"It does n't pay," said Curtis. "When I have military work assigned me, I don't do the dashing sketch-artist act, you bet; I go to my studio, light my pipe, pull out a lot of old Illustrated London News, select several suitable battle scenes by Caton Woodville-and use 'em too."

The car shot around the neck-breaking curve at Fourteenth Street.

"Yes," continued Curtis, as the car stopped in front of the Morton House for a moment, then plunged forward again amid a furious clanging of gongs, "it does n't pay to do decent work for the fat-headed men who run the Manhattan Illustrated. They don't appreciate it."

"I think the public does," I said, “but I'm sure Jamison does n't. It would serve him right if I did what most of you fellows do-take a lot of Caton Woodville's and Thulstrup's drawings, change the uniforms, chic' a figure or two, and turn in a drawing labelled from life.' I'm sick of this sort of thing anyway. Almost every day this week I've been chasing myself over that

tropical camp, or galloping in the wake of those batteries. I've got a full page of the camp by moonlight,' full pages of artillery drill' and 'light battery in action,' and a dozen smaller drawings that cost me more groans and perspiration than Jamison ever knew in all his lymphatic life!"

"Jamison's got wheels," said Curtis,-" more wheels than there are bicycles in Harlem. He wants you to do a full page by Saturday."

"A what?" I exclaimed, aghast.

"Yes he does-he was going to send Jim Crawford, but Jim expects to go to California for the winter fair, and you 've got to do it."

"What is it?" I demanded savagely.

"The animals in Central Park," chuckled Curtis.

I was furious. The animals! Indeed! I'd show Jamison that I was entitled to some consideration! This was Thursday; that gave me a day and a half to finish a full-page drawing for the paper, and, after my work at the State Camp I felt that I was entitled to a little rest. Anyway I objected to the subject. I intended to tell Jamison so I intended to tell him firmly. However, many of the things that we often intended to tell Jamison were never told. He was a peculiar man, fat-faced, thin-lipped, gentle-voiced, mildmannered, and soft in his movements as a pussy cat. Just why our firmness should give way when we were actually in his presence, I have never quite been able to determine. He said very

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