WITH THE MIGRATORY "STIFFS"
WE COULDN'T make a go of our studio. Metcalf disappeared. Angelo St. Verna Krise went back to his palmistry. I was left with the paintings. I disposed of several big pastels to local saloonkeepers, receiving for the last, which I sold to Mc‐ Ardle's Saloon on Fifty-sixth Street, a ten-dollar bill and six bottles of "Old Hunter" rye. The money I turned over to my mother for board; but, through unfamiliarity with the ways of whiskey, I fell heir to a headache that lasted three days. By the end of February I was back at the Kaiser Art Company.
It was the annual horse show at the Stock Yards that made Dad think of owning a pony. He said,
"I don't feel right without a horse around."So one evening he rode a bronco up to the barn, sitting very straight in the saddle. It was a sight to see him clattering down the alley in true western style.
"I'm naming him 'Teddy,' after our President,"Dad announced.
"He may be 'Teddy' to you,"I retorted,
"but I'm naming him 'Debby' after Debs."
"It won't make a darn bit of difference what we call him; he'll never pay attention anyhow. But isn't he a bargain, fifty dollars, saddle, bridle, and all; the saddle alone is worth twice that."Dad was very proud of his "nine hundred ornery pounds of flea-bitten horse flesh." Every day "Teddy" took Dad to and from the livery stable; every evening and week end "Debby" took me to Washington Park or to the wide prairie south of Seventy-second Street.
"Teddy" must have put ideas into Dad's head. One morning my father announced unexpectedly that he had accepted a job managing a model farm owned by the well-known surgeon, Dr.