The pencil-borrowing Touts and the Wine Pushers began to call him Bob, which proved that he was a Man about Town.
When the final Kiflukus was put on the Ponies, he assembled the residue of his Bundle and began to work steady as a Guesser in a Broker's Office.
His job was to show at 10 A. M. with a big Reina Victoria at one extreme corner of his Face and pretend to know what was coming off when the Boy put the funny marks on the Blackboard.
Ever and anon he would buy 1000 Shares of something, as if Negotiating for a Bread-Ticket.
As a rule, the tall-grass Plunger with a wad of new Kale has about the same percentage in his favor as that enjoyed by a Shoat out at the well-known Establishment of Armour & Co.
The Cleaners go forth to meet him, bearing as Gifts a Dream-Book and a new kind of Cocktail with a Kick like a Coast-Defense Gun.
A few weeks later they are casting lots for his Union Suit.
Bob came from Simpville, but he had acquired a couple of Wrinkles associating with the Wing Shots in the Paddock.
He could shift to either Foot and he kept his Maxillary covered.
Sometimes he picked up the wrong Walnut. It would begin to look like a quick change from Caviar to Crackers.