He remembered last a place with bright glass chandeliers, a gilt cupid over the bar, a girl in a frowzy hat, laughing with large teeth, and Kid Sadler singing that song he had made up and was so “doggone stuck on”:
“Sandy Cass! A-alas!
We 'll be shut up
In the lockup
If this here keeps on.”
It got monotonous, that song.
“Sandy Cass! A-alas!
A comin' home,
A bummin home—”
He liked to make poetry, Kid Sadler. You would not have expected it, to look at his sloppy mustache, long dry throat, and big hands. The poetry was generally accurate. Sandy did not see any good in it, unless it was accurate.