A favourite dodge to get your story read by the public is to assert that it is true, andthen add that Truth is stranger than Fiction. I do not know if the yarn I am anxious for youto read is true; but the Spanish purser of the fruit steamer El Carrero swore to me by theshrine of Santa Guadalupe that he had the facts from the U. S. vice-consul at La Paz-aperson who could not possibly have been cognizant of half of them.As for the adage quoted above, I take pleasure in puncturing it by affirming that I readin a purely fictional story the other day the line: "'Be it so, ' said the policeman." Nothing sostrange has yet cropped out in Truth.When H. Ferguson Hedges, millionaire promoter, investor and man-about- New-York, turned his thoughts upon matters convivial, and word of it went "down the line," bouncerstook a precautionary turn at the Indian clubs, waiters put ironstone china on his favouritetables, cab drivers crowded close to the curbstone in front of all-night caf s, and carefulcashiers in his regular haunts charged up a few bottles to his account by way of preface andintroduction.As a money power a one-millionaire is of small account in a city where the man whocuts your slice of beef behind the free-lunch counter rides to work in his own automobile.But Hedges spent his money as lavishly, loudly and showily as though he were only a clerksquandering a week's wages. And, after all, the bartender takes no interest in your reservefund. He would rather look you up on his cash register than in Bradstreet.On the evening that the material allegation of facts begins, Hedges was bidding dull carebegone in the company of five or six good fellows-acquaintances and friends who hadgathered in his wake.
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