A week ago I took a spin on my wheel, along country roads where the festive bull loiters in the shade of the tree, waiting for a victim.
If you have ever taken the trouble to notice, there are funny things sometimes happening on these dusty highways of the hobos, and more than a few times the shrewd city man finds himself the sport of Rube's wit.
Having become somewhat confused as to my bearings on this particular occasion, I thought to make inquiries of a slab-sided youth, who leaned on a fence and sucked at a straw meditatively.
"I say, my good fellow, am I on the right road to Jericho?" I asked, with my most patronizing smile.
He surveyed me a minute and then said slowly:
"Ya-as, stranger, but I kinder reckon you're goin' in the wrong direcshun."
Say, as I was walking along Sixth Avenue a man thumped me on the back and yelled out:
"Sure, Michael, ye're the broth av a bhoy. Len' me ten."