This is the scheme:
Listerine. He's going to train carrier pigeons to rush the growler. The
Chorus Girls' Union have already elected him an honorary vice-president.
You see, he gets these birds and trains them to carry the pail in their
teeth and smell out the nearest saloon, even a blind tiger--no matter
where they are. Then he rents the birds out by the dozen to the
theatrical organizations--special rates to musical comedies--so that all
the poor merry-merry has to do if there is no gentleman without is get a
bird from the property man, beat it for the furnished room, drop ten
cents in the bucket, write a little note to the bartender merely
stating: 'Mother has company, so not so much foam, please,' open the
window and start the dove of peace on its mission of happiness. You
needn't be afraid of the pigeon sneaking up an alley and drinking half
of it and then coming back with the stall, 'The boss is on tonight;
there ain't no bellhop to tip and all the bird wants is three or four
grains of corn, mother, and its just as happy and care free as if you
opened wine. Won't that be a boon to humanity, though? If he don't get a
Carnegie medal things are run wrong. Another stunt he is going to pull
off is canned cheese sandwiches. Well, I got to toddle along. The
Ladies' Auxiliary to the Anvil Chorus is going to hold a meeting in Alla
Sweenie's apartments. Was you ever one of them? Well, when those dames
get on the job and are grouped it makes Elinor Glyn's opinion of the
Pilgrim Mothers seem like words of praise.
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