"I'm just crazy to take lunch, sometime, among the Bohemians!" she gurgled.
I told her I though she'd have a happier time if we tramped down to the tunnel and butted in among the Italians just as the twelve o'clock whistle blew, and she threw both lamps at me good and hard.
Clara Jane spent the summer once at Sag Harbor and she's been a subscriber for The Young Ladies' Home Companion, but outside of these her young life has been devoid of excitement.
A few days ago I took her to the matinee at "The New York" where you have to pinch off only 50 cents and then you're entitled to slosh around in parlor furniture and eat up about $8 worth of comedy.
That "New York" thing is immense—believe me!
Everything else has faded away.
After the show we thought we'd pat the pave for a few blocks and who should we run into but Bud Phillips.
Bud belongs to the Grand Lodge of Good Fellows.
So far as I can size him up the Good Fellow puts in twelve hours a day trying to stab himself to death with gin rickeys, and the other twelve are devoted to yelling for help and ice-water.
This is not a tap on the door. Nix on the knock.