"Nothing," Johnny answered—"nothing at all. Yes, you can give me a five, if you like, or a ten; but don't give me your address, or the first time I'm down again I'd look you up and strike you for ten more."
A band of undergraduates, twenty of them or more, four abreast, arm in arm, went tramping down Broadway, yelling forth the chorus of a college song.
"You used to sing that song, Johnny," said White.
"I used to do lots of things," he answered, as the waiter opened the champagne.
"I never heard anybody get as much out of 'The Son of a Gamboleer' as you did," White continued.
"I joined a negro-minstrel troupe as second tenor twelve years ago, but we got stranded in Hartford, and I had to walk home. I've tried to do a song and dance in the Bowery dime museums since then, more than once. But it's no use."
When they had made an end of the canvas-backs and the brut '84, Johnny sat back in his chair and smiled, and said, "Well, this was worth while."
Then the coffee came, and White said, "You forgot to order the liqueur, Johnny."
"You see what it is to be out of practice," he replied. "I'd like some orange curaçoa."
"And I will take a little green mint," said White to the waiter. "And bring some cigars—Henry Clays."