«How do you feel, old man?» asked the surgeon, stooping easily to his task. The princess of silks and satins wiped a red drop or two from Raggles's brow with a fragrant cobweb.
«Me?» said Raggles, with a seraphic smile, «I feel fine.»
He had found the heart of his new city.
In three days they let him leave his cot for the convalescent ward in the hospital. He had been in there an hour when the attendants heard sounds of conflict. Upon investigation they found that Raggles had assaulted and damaged a brother convalescent—a glowering transient whom a freight train collision had sent in to be patched up.
«What's all this about?» inquired the head nurse.
«He was runnin' down me town,» said Raggles.
«What town?» asked the nurse.
«Noo York,» said Raggles.
VANITY AND SOME SABLES
When «Kid» Brady was sent to the rope by Molly McKeever's blue–black eyes he withdrew from the Stovepipe Gang. So much for the power of a colleen's blanderin' tongue and stubborn true–heartedness. If you are a man who read this, may such an influence be sent you before 2 o'clock to–morrow; if you are a woman, may your Pomeranian greet you this morning with a cold nose—a sign of doghealth and your happiness.