From the Evening Star, March 10, 1913. By Walt Mason. You’re welcome at the booze bazaar while you have got a roll; they’ll say you are a shining star, a genial, princely soul. The low-browed gent who sells the suds will call you “Cap” or “Judge,” while you have bullion in your duds to buy his baneful budge. And all the mirthful hangers-on will cheer your wit and sense, while merrily the demijohn goes round at your expense. They’ll greet with wide ecstatic grin the stalest of your jokes, while you have cash to buy the gin or fix the crowd with smokes. But when your little roll is lost, and you all busted are, there falls a chill antarctic frost about the shining bar. And when you fix your thirsty gaze upon the bottled shelf, the gent who smirked in other days, growls fiercely, “Chase yourself!” The loafers eye you with disdain, who once said you were It, and grumble that you cause them pain, when you’d display your wit. The days when you showed up so strong no one can now recall; and if you hang around too long they’ll push you through the wall. Good fellows go the same old gait, the gay, high-rolling chumps; and they will meet the same old fate, and bump the same old bumps.