Down the line with John Henry

by George V. Hobart

"I never heard of Muttheimer's before," said Clara Jane, on the side.

"You luck has given you a thrown-down," I said.

"But I do hope it's Bohemian," she sighed.

"Sure!" I said. I hated to break her heart.

Muttheimer's is one of those eateries where the waiters look wise because they can't speak English.

If you ask them a question they bark at you in German.

It's supposed to be Bohemian because there's sawdust on the floor and the flies wear pajamas and say "Prosit!" before falling in the stuff that you swallow to-day and taste to-morrow.

Bud bunches his hits on the bell and the low-forehead has a Fitzsimmons hug on the order when Ikey Mincenpizenstein crawls into the harbor and drops anchor at our table.

I don't know how Ikey ever pressed close enough to get on Bud's staff.

Ikey is a lazy loosener.