"Say, baby, can't I have a wet?" one of the female wrestlers remarks as she plumps herself down in her tights on the quivering knee of a weak little fellow who appears young enough to be fond of molasses candy yet, and throws her arms around his neck and hugs him to her flabby breast violently enough to disarrange the black curly hair he had slicked down at the barber shop just before he came in.
"A what?" he asks, trying to get his neck sufficiently released to be at least comfortable.
"A drink, darling," and she hugs him again and begins playing with a little curl over his forehead.
"Why, of course you can," is the overwhelmed young man's reply.
Now she looks fondly into his eyes and with the most affectionate expression at her command asks: "And how about my partner, baby. Can't she have a drink?"
"I suppose so," responds the victim; and there is a loud shouting at the stage-door for "Ida," or somebody else, and Ida, knowing what she is wanted for, hurries to the spot. In the meantime "Johnnie," the waiter, has been summoned.
"Give me a port wine sangaree," says Ida's partner.
"And give me a stone fence" (cider and brandy), says Ida.
"And what are you going to drink, baby?" the wrestler sitting on his knee asks.
"Give me glass of beer," says the "baby," in a tone sufficiently disconsolate to suggest that he was afraid he might not have enough money to pay for the treat.