"I ain't been in one of these here rats ketchers fur quite a while," said Blister, as we descended the steps beneath the flambuoyant sign. "Do you go to shows much?" he asked, when two steins were between us on the flemish oak board.
"Not a great deal," I replied. "I did dramatics—wrote up shows—for two years and that rather destroyed my enjoyment of the theater."
"I got you," said Blister. "Seein' so much of it spoils you fur it. That's me, too. I won't cross the street to see a show when I'm on the stage."
Had he suddenly announced himself king of the Cannibal Islands I would have looked and felt about as then. I gazed at him with dropping jaw.
"No, I ain't bugs!" he grinned, as he saw my expression. "I'm on the stage quite a while. Ain't I never told you?"
"You certainly have not," I said emphatically.
"I goes on the stage just because I starts to cuss a dog I owns one day," said Blister. "It's the year they pull off one of these here panic things, and believe me the kale just fades from view! It you borrow a rub-rag, three ginnies come along to bring it back when you're through. If you happens to mention you ain't got your makin's with you, the nearest guy to you'll call the police. They wouldn't have a hoss trained that could run a mile in nothin'.
"A dog out on grass don't cost but two bucks a month. It seems like the men I'm workin' fur all remembers this at once. When I'm through followin' shippin' instructions I'm down to one mutt, 'n' I owns him myself. He's some hoss—I don't think. He's got a splint big as a turkey egg that keeps him ouchy in front half the time, 'n' his heart ain't in the right place. I've filled his old hide so full of hop you could knock his eyes off with a club, tryin' to make him cop, but he won't come through—third is the best he'll do.
"One day about noon I'm standin' lookin' in the stall door, watchin' him mince over his oats. They ain't nothin' good about this dog—not even his appetite. I ain't had a real feed myself fur three days, 'n' when I sees this ole counterfeit mussin' over his grub I opens up on him.
"'Why, you last year's bird's nest!' I says to him. 'What th' hell right have you got to be fussy with your eats? They ain't a oat in that box but what out-classes you—they've all growed faster'n you can run! The only thing worse'n you is a ticket on you to win. If I pulls your shoes off 'n' has my choice between you 'n' them—I takes the shoes. If I wouldn't be pinched fur it I gives you to the first nut they lets out of the bughouse—you sour-bellied-mallet-headed-yellow pup! You cross between a canary 'n' a mud-turtle!'