"She has got the D. T.'s," I cheeps. "She is talking about a hippopotamus what flies or I will eat that there bridle. Come on," I says, "this is not no place for—" But I do not get no further because there is a faint whinny and this here woman shrieks joyfully and—without so much as a kiss-my-foot—lams in the direction of this here nickering which, judging from the sound, is a block or so to our rear—though we has not seen no sign of no horse when we is walking by thataway.
We stands there gawking after this dame while she disappears in the night and Jimmie, suddenlike, yells, "Hey, here is your bridle," and starts after her and me after Jimmie, because I has not got no wish to see Jimmie sucked in on something that is not kosher, and it is plain that there is something here that does not meet the eye right off.
I dope it that this here dame is a kind of a lead rein for some guys which is laying low in a alley or some place figuring to roll whoever she ropes in, and it is a unpleasant statistic that persons is often beat up severe when it is discovered they has not got no wherewith to make such a business profitable.
When we gets down the street a ways I catches up to Jimmie and stops him and I says, "Has you taken leave of your senses? This here is one of them cul-de-sacs or I am a ring-tailed—" But I do not say baboon, which I had intended, because somewhere I hears a noise like a lot of pigeons taking off—like they has been shooed—and from way up, like on a roof, I hears this woman laughing and it dwindles away and, then, it is quiet and a little white feather drifts down and lands in the gutter. It is all very weird and I do not like it.
"I would of swore a horse nickered down here a minute ago," Jimmie says.
"Shut up," I says, "and let's us get out of here before we is knifed in the back."
So we does and that is how Jimmie come by the bridle.
Well, say, I do not mind if I do. There is this about beer. You do not have to worry none the next morning about tying your shoes. Ever try sticking a hot knife in it? Many's the time I has seen my old man heat the poker until it is as red as the old Scratch hisself and then plunge it into the pail. That was when you could get all you wanted for a dime with boiled ham and cheese and bologna throwed in to boot and, like as not, a slice of liver for the cat.
Here's bumps, mister. And may you never tear up your ducats without looking twice.