“No.”
“Does she give her address?”
“Just Gen’ral Deliv’ry.”
“Thank y’, Rose.”
“Stay t’ dinner, Cupid. I’m goin’ t’ have chicken fricassee.”
But I didn’t feel like eatin’. I put the kid down and come away.
I made towards Dutchy’s–pretty blue, I was, a-course. “Cupid,” I says, “bad luck runs in you’ fambly like the wooden laig.”
But, mind y’, I wasn’t goin’ with the idear of boozin’ up, no, ma’am. I figger that if a gal’s worth stewin’ over any, she’s a hull lot too good fer a man that gits drunk. I went ’cause I knowed the boys was there; and them days the boys was mighty nice to me.
Wal, this day, I’m powerful glad I went. If I hadn’t, it’s likely I’d never ’a’ got that bully po-sition, ’r played Cupid again (without knowin’ it)–and so got the one chanst I was a-prayin’ fer.
Now, this is what happened: