It isn't my cue to aim the hammer.
When it comes to falling off the water wagon I can do a bit of a specialty in grand and lofty tumbling that gets a loud hand from all the members of the High Tide Association. So nix on the knock.
His father cut out the breathing business about two years ago and left Bud $100,000 and a long dry spell on the inside.
Bud has been in the lake ever since.
"As you were!" said Bud. "Why, it's John Henry! touch thumbs, old pal?" and then in a side speech he wanted to know what troupe the soubrette was cutting-up with.
If Clara Jane had heard him my finish would have hopped over the fence then and there.
But she didn't, so I introduced them and quietly tipped Bud off to the fact that it will be a case of wedding bells when Willie gets a wad—be nice! be nice!
And Bud woke up to the occasion.
"You to the carryall!" he said. "I'll float you down to Muttheimer's and we'll get busy with the beans!"
"He's out to cough for a few cookies," I explained to Clara Jane.