"Wants more money, eh?"
"Nope, getting too toney, that's all."
"What's he up to, now?"
"Refuses what we give him—lamp chimneys ain't fastidious enough for his highness—wants cut glass," said the man in the ticket office.
While I was still smiling about the stuck-up devourer of broken glass, I ran slap into Godkin, who used to be a neighbor of ours.
Some months back he yielded to the alluring blandishments of the Jere Johnson tribe of suburban real estate men, and went over in Jersey to reside.
He certainly looked bad.
His face was pale and his eyes had a far-away expression.
"Old man," I said, anxiously, "what's ailing you? I never knew you to be sick before. Really, you ought to ask some doctor what's the matter."