This historic book may have numerous typos, missing text or index. Purchasers can download a free scanned copy of the original book (without typos) from the publisher. 1921. Not illustrated. Excerpt: ... ALL'S SWELL THAT ENDS SWELL THE sleep-laden eyes of Mr. Florian Slappey opened reluctantly upon a flood of midmorning sun which streamed in through the uncurtained window and made terribly visible the worn spots of the rug which partially covered the floor. Mr. Slappey yawned, shook his head and sent forth inquiring fingers to a chair which stood by the side of his bed. They closed about a package of Turkish cigarettes and a match. Mr. Slappey lighted one of the cigarettes, inhaled luxuriously and lay back upon his pillow. But Florian was not happy--at any rate not to the point of inconvenience. His worldly assets consisted of the best wardrobe boasted by any colored man in the city of Birmingham, an overdue account for the room which he occupied, nine dollars in cash and an insistent yearning for the fleshpots. Florian was up against a proposition. From a nebulous background a form was emerging and the form was labeled "Job." Florian was not personally opposed to work--provided it was the other fellow who was working. As for himself, he considered it beneath his dignity to labor at regular hours for someone else. Much of his social preeminence was due to the fact that he was looked upon as being a man of means, one to whom work might be a delight but certainly not a necessity. And Florian cared no more for his social prestige than a oneeyed man cares for his sole surviving optic. The cigarette burned down to the chocolate fingers which clutched it and was flipped through the window. And then Florian sniffed. He sat up in bed and sniffed again. The odor was unmistakable--he had smelled similar smells before. He knew that it was bacon in the process of broiling. He had become poignantly aware of the fact that a rapidly depreciating cash balance had carried with i...