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If it ain't right, I'll make it all right in the Morning! by Jonathan F. Kelley


A keen, genteely dressed, gentlemanly man “put up” at Beltzhoover's Hotel, in Baltimore, one day some years ago, and after dining very sumptuously every day, drinking his Otard, Margieux and Heidsic, and smoking his “Tras,” “Byrons,” and “Cassadoras,” until the landlord began to surmise the “bill” getting voluminous, he made the clerk foot it up and present it to our modern Don Cæsar De Bazan, who, casting his eye over the long lines of perpendicularly arranged figures, discovered that—which in no wise alarmed him, however—he was in for a matter of a cool C!

“Ah! yes, I see; well, I presume it's all right, all correct, sir, no doubt about it,” says Don Cæsar.

“No doubt at all, sir,” says the polite clerk,—“we seldom present a bill, sir, until the gentlemen are about to leave, sir; but when the bills are unusually large, sir—”

“Large, sir? Large, my dear fellow”—says the Don—“bless your soul, you don't call that large? Why, sir, a—a—that is, when I was in Washington, at Gadsby's, sir, bless you, I frequently had my friends of the Senate and the Ministers to dine at my rooms, and what do you suppose my bills averaged a week, there, sir?”

“I can't possibly say, sir—must have counted up very heavy, sir, I think,” responds the clerk.

“Heavy! ha! ha! you may well say they were heavy, my dear fellow—five and eight hundred dollars a week!” says the Don, with a nonchalance that would win the admiration of a flash prince of the realm.

“O, no doubt of it, sir; it is very expensive to keep company, and entertain the government officers, at Washington, sir,” the clerk replies.

“You're right, my dear fellow; you're right. But let me see,” and here the Don stuck a little glass in the corner of his eye, and glanced at the bill; “ah, yes, I see, $102.51—a—a—something—all right, I presume; if it ain't right, we'll make it all right in the morning.”

“Very good, sir; that will answer, sir,” says the clerk, about to bow himself out of the room.

“One moment, if you please, my dear fellow; that Marteux of yours is really superb. A friend dined here yesterday with me—he is a—a gentleman who imports a—a great deal of wine; he a—a—pronounces your Schreider an elegant article. I shall entertain some friends to-night, here, and do you see that we have sufficient of that 'Marteux' and 'Schreider' cooling for us; my friends are judges of a pure article, and a—a I wish them to have a—a good opinion of your house. Understand?”

“Ah, yes, sir; that'll be all right,” says the clerk.

“Of course; if it ain't, I'll make it all right in the morning!” says the Don Cæsar, as the official vanished.

“Well, Charles, did you present that gentleman's bill?” asks the host of the clerk, as they met at “the office.”

“Yes, sir; he says it's all right, or he'll make it all right in the morning, sir,” replies the clerk.

“Very well,” says the anxious host; “see that he does it.”

That evening a Captain Jones called on Don Cæsar—a servant carried up the card—Captain Jones was requested to walk up. Lieutenant Smith, U. S. N., next called—“walk up.” Dr. Brown called—“walk up.” Col. Green, his card—“walk up;” and so on, until some six or eight distinguished persons were walked up to Don Cæsar's private parlor; and pretty soon the silver necks were brought up, corks were popping, glasses were clinking, jests and laughter rose above the wine and cigars, and Don Cæsar was putting his friends through in the most approved style!

Time flew, as it always does. Capt. Jones gave the party a bit of a salt-water song, Dr. Brown pitched in a sentiment, while Colonel Green and Lieutenant Smith talked largely of the “last session,” what their friend Benton said to Webster, and Webster to Benton, and what Bill Allen said to 'em both. And Miss Corsica, the French Minister's daughter, what she had privately intimated to Lieutenant Smith in regard to American ladies, and what the Hon. so and so offered to do and say for Colonel Green, and so and so and so and so. Still the corks “popped,” and the glasses jingled, and the merry jest, and the laugh jocund, and the rich sentiment, and richer fumes of the cigars filled the room.

Don Cæsar kept on hurrying up the wine, and as each bottle was uncorked, he assured the servants—“All right; if it ain't all right, we'll make it all right in the morning!

And so Don Cæsar and his bon vivant friends went it, until some two dozen bottles of Schreider, Hock, and Sherry had decanted, and the whole entire party were getting as merry as grigs, and so noisy and rip-roarious, that the clerk of the institution came up, and standing outside of the door, sent a servant to Don Cæsar, to politely request that gentleman to step out into the hall one moment.

“What's that?” says the Don; “speak loud, I've got a buzzing in my ears, and can't hear whispers.”

“Mr. Tompkins, sir, the clerk of the house, sir,” replies the servant, in a sharp key.

“Well, what the deuce of Tompkins—hic—what does he—hic—does he want? Tell—hic—tell him it's—hic—all right, or we'll make it all right—hic—in the morning.”

Mr. Tompkins then took the liberty of stepping inside, and slipping up to Don Cæsar, assured him that himself and friends were a little too merry, but Don Cæsar assured Tompkins—

“It's all—hic—right, mi boy, all—hic—right; these gentlemen—hic—are all gentlemen, my—hic—personal friends—hic—and it's all right—hic—all perfectly—hic—right, or we'll make it all right in the morning.”

“That we do not question, sir,” says the clerk, “but there are many persons in the adjoining rooms whom you'll disturb, sir; I speak for the credit of the house.”

“O—hic—certainly, certainly, mi boy; I'll—hic—I'll speak to the gentlemen,” says the Don, rising in his chair, and assuming a very solemn graveness, peculiar to men in the fifth stage of libation deep; “Gentlemen—hic—gentle_men, I'm requested to state—hic—that—hic—a very serious piece of intelligence—hic—has met my ear. This gentle_man—hic—says somebody's dead in the next—hic—room.”

“Not at all, sir; I did not say that, sir,” says the clerk.

“Beg—hic—your pardon, sir—hic—it's all right; if it ain't all right, I'll make it—hic—all right in the morning! Gentlemen, let's—hic—us all adjourn; let's change the see—hic—scene, call a coach—hic—somebody, let's take a ride—hic—and return and go to—hic—our pious—hic—rest.”

Having delivered this order and exhortation, Don Cæsar arose on his pins, and marshalling his party, after a general swap of hats all around, in which trade big heads got smallest hats, and small heads got largest hats, by aid of the staircase and the servants, they all got to the street, and lumbering into a large hack, they started off on a midnight airing, noisy and rip-roarious as so many sailors on a land cruise. The last words uttered by Don Cæsar, there, as the coach drove off, were:

“All right—hic—mi boy, if it ain't, we'll make it all right in the morning!

“Yes, that we will,” says the landlord, “and if I don't stick you into a bill of costs 'in the morning,' rot me. You'll have a nice time,” he continued, “out carousing till daylight; lucky I've got his wallet in the fire-proof, the jackass would be robbed before he got back, and I'd lose my bill!

Don Cæsar did not return to make good his promise in the morning, and so the landlord took the liberty of investigating the wallet, deposited for safe keeping in the fire-proof of the office, by the Don; and lo! and behold! it contained old checks, unreceipted bills, and a few samples of Brandon bank notes, with this emphatic remark:—“All right, if it ain't all right, WE'LL MAKE IT ALL RIGHT IN THE MORNING!”


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