Mr. Milquetoast, a few minutes late for the curtain, misses the entire first act, rather than disturb the person next his aisle seat

Mr. Milquetoast is asked by a Californian and a New Yorker if he is going to the World's Fair.

Mr. Milquetoast happens to read the fine print on his theatre ticket

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Mr. Milquetoast writes at length to some market tipsters, giving them a list of his almost worthless stocks.

Mr. Milquetoast never feels quite so inferior as he does when passing one of those haughty show window dummies

Whenever Mr. Milquetoast meets a friend at the steamer he imagines he is suspected of smuggling

Mr. Milquetoast never likes to be seen looking at undraped statuary

Mr. Milquetoast adjusts his garter

Recognition from a master

The days when theatre tickets grew on trees

When the girl of the gay nineties saw her first Gibson picture and realized that all men were not the snub nosed, freckled, gangling roughnecks she had become accustomed to in her own little town.

After miles of walking at the fair, you finally arrive at home, kick off those hot, tight shoes, and spend the balance of the evening wriggling your grateful toes.

[A change of drivers for the trotting horse Hercules.]