THOSE PESTIFEROUS BUGS.
Countless Numbers of Them Made
Life Miserable Last Night.
The fat man who lolls in front of hotels in the style of chair large enough to sleep in, discovered a fine breeze last night. He was out in unusually large number. The breeze was fine. The fat man was reading a paper under a glow of large electric lights and puffing away on a huge black cigar.
Then the bugs came, the pestiferous, clinging, crawly green bugs that hot, dry weather brings out. They crawled into his ears and slimed their way across his perspiring neck. They attacked him cheek and jowl. The fat man retreated, back to the super-heated, but screened, lobby of the hotel.
The fat man was not alone in his misery. His brother of the rolled up sleeves and a few of his sisters who affect that kind of raiment also had their troubles. The bugs had an ugly habit of climbing in under the roll of the sleeves, and crawling over the bare skin with much the sort of feeling one has when a bum prima donna hits a punk note. Under the electric lights and close to show windows, the green bugs held undisputed sway. They flew about in trillions, more or less, but sufficiently more to make it much more than less.
Their entry called for heartfelt swats and biffs, and they got 'em, but the survivors came back gallantly to the charge. At a late hour this morning, the green bugs held their vigil 'neath the twinkling lights, ready, ever ready to pounce down and crawl over and along and about any wayfarer who chanced their way.
