“Mac, hand over one of those toy sample bottles of California fizz,” said the agent. “We’ll put this craft down the ways in shape.”
Felton broke the neck off the bottle with a tack-hammer and poured the wine on the boy’s head. “I christen thee Chescheela James Felton—may you become a good seaworthy craft, and not fill your skin with this stuff when you grow up,” said he dramatically.
The small boy squinted up his eyes to keep the wine out; then he shook the liquid from his hair, looked up and grinned.
“Youse fellers is reg’lar kids,” said he.
“Lord, that’s a great boy!” said the agent. “He’s the oldest man in the crowd. Say, let’s give him a white man’s start, beginning with a bath.”
The whole party went to the barbershop and made the darky proprietor dispense a bath and a hair-cut for nothing.
“Shave, sir?” asked the latter, when the hair had been properly trimmed.
“No,” replied the youth. “I t’ink I’ll let me whiskers grow. Dere’s enuff wind in dis country ter keep der moths outen ’em.”
Then they raided the clothing store, and abused the Hebrew owner until he reduced the price. “Oof der lodt—everyding, shennelmun! Sigsdy ber zent. Dere’s no broffit left—it doaned bay fur the freight.”
“Look here, Sol! Will you swear that on a piece of pork?” demanded the agent. The Hebrew moaned.