Down the line with John Henry

by George V. Hobart

Bud was beginning to see double. Every once in a while he'd stop trying to whistle "Sallie, My Hot Tamale," and he'd look over at Clara Jane and hand her a sad, sad smile.

Then he'd press money in the waiter's hand and wait for his music cue.

Clara Jane had about decided that Bohemia was away up stage, but I wouldn't let go. I wanted her to get the lesson of her life, and that's where my finish began to get busy.

Tom Barclay waltzed into the subway, saw me and in a minute he was making the break of his life.

"Why, hello, John Henry!" said Tom, "say, I saw her to-day—and she's immense! You've got a great eye, old man!"

I tossed off a few wicked winks on that great eye of mine but Tom went right along to the funeral.

"Lizzie B. is a peach, John Henry! You've got the eye for the good girls, all right, all right!" he chortled.

Clara Jane began to freeze.

I felt like a boiled potato in the hands of an Irish policeman.

"She's every bit to the good, old man!" Tom turned it on again; "she makes all the other birds chatter in the cage. And her feet—did you ever see such feet?"