"'You shut your mouth!' said the old hobo, 'or I'll chuck you into the river!' And he poured some of the stuff out of the bottle into the can—"
At this exciting point poor George halted for breath and mopped his forehead. He felt fully as thirsty as the tomato-can. But the children were upon him, clutching his scarlet tunic:
"What did he do then?" howled Jerry.
"Eh?" gasped the young policeman,—"oh, he opened his mouth where he was soldered and let the stuff run out. So the old hobo threw him into the river. That's why hoboes always pack a bottle with them now instead of a tomato-can."
He leaned back with a sigh and, thrusting his hands deep into his pockets, smiled wanly at his vis-à-vis.
"There!" he said, with feeble triumph, "I've carried out the sentence."
And it did him good to drink in her mirthful, waggish laugh.
"Yes!" she conceded gaily, "you certainly did great execution, though you look more like a prisoner just reprieved."
Jerry, screwing up his small snub nose leered triumphantly across her lap at Alice. "Goozlemy, goozlemy, goozlemy!" he squeaked, "that man was a real hobo."
His grimace was returned with interest. Alice hugged her puppy awhile contentedly, murmuring in that canine's ear, "What a silly old thing that tomato-can must have been. If I'd been him I'd have kept my mouth shut."