If there had been no Flat Tire, he would have been back in time for the usual round-up of the Irrigation Committee and never would have been a Great Financier.
Marooned among the Hay-Fields, he stopped at a Farm House and took a long chance on some Well-Water, dipped in a Gourd from the Moss-Covered Bucket.
Scotch Whiskey is never contaminated by Surface Drains, but each
sparkling Drop of the Fluid that Bob quaffed, there beneath the
Willows, contained more than 2,000,000 of the Germs made notorious by
Dr. Woods Hutchinson.
A few days later a swarm of Bees settled in each ear. Every Sky-
Scraper gave an imitation of the Leaning Tower of Pisa.
He knew he was out of Kelter, but he had to watch the Board, for he had put every Bean in the World on an acrobatic Industrial known as Tin Bucket Preferred.
Already the Paper Profits were enormous. Bob figured confidently on another Whoop of 50 points and a double string of Pearls for Elphye. But when the poor Loon had a Temperature of 5 above Par and had to cling to the Brass Rail to keep from taking the Count, he lost his Nerve entirely.
He couldn't see anything on the Horizon except Tariff Revision, Hard
Times, Weeping Women, Starving Kiddies, Closed Factories, Soup
Kitchens, and Bread Lines.
While in this dotty State and quite irresponsible, he directed the
Manager to close out the whole Smear and sell short.
Furthermore, he was so daffy and curdled in the Filbert that he sold three times as much as he had.
Then he did a couple of Spins and a Flop, and the White Ambulance bore him away to the big Hospital.