“There ain’t any worst,” said Jimmie. “You come here!”—and he seized him by the collar.
“Leggo!” said the conductor, but at the same time permitting himself to be jammed into a corner while the golden tale of sudden wealth was poured into his ears.
“Ah, g’wan!”—but the tones grew weaker and weaker, and when Jimmie produced his little pamphlet on high finance, printed in green—proof to any eye—the conductor fell upon his neck.
“I allus knew you was the kind of a little bird that could fly if you drew them feet off the ground,” he said. “Call the turn.”
“We have got fifteen minutes,” said Jimmie. “Here we go fresh across the street to celebrate.”
At this period the minds of both these worthy men were clear and free from any further operation than that natural to taking a drink, but after that first drink, and with the confidence, bred of another, to believe in that money, James’ mind extended itself. He pounded the bar with his fist.
“I am dead sick and tired of going over the same old streets,” said he. “It occurs to me at times that I’ll have to turn off som’ers, or bust.”
“Yep,” assented the conductor; “that’s right, too. All the time the same streets; all the time the same old dog that comes just so near getting pinched; all the time the same fat man waving his umbrell’; all the time the same Dagoes with gunnysacks filled with something, and smelling with a strong Italian accent; all the time the same war over that transfer, after that same young lady has traveled half a mile beyond where she ought to have got off. If I had another drink I could feel very bad about this.”
“Let’s,” said Jimmie. So the conductor felt very bad about it, and Jimmie, like the good friend he was, felt worse.
“Yes, sir,” said he, “I just naturally will have to turn off som’ers, or I surely will bust.”