"Sure; because I didn't study it," I says. "What makes the boat run?" I ast her.
"Why, the wheel," she says.
"And who runs the wheel?" I ast her.
"The pilot," says she.
"And what does the engineer do?" I says.
"Why, I suppose he keeps the fire burnin'," she says.
"But in weather like this what do they want of a fire?"
"I suppose it gets colder out in the middle o' the lake," she says.
"No," says I; "but on Saturdays they got to keep a fire goin' to heat the babies' bottles."
We went in the room next to the bar. A boy set at the piano playin' Sweet Cider Time in Moonshine Valley and some Hawaiian native melodies composed by a Hungarian waiter that was too proud to fight. Three or four couple was dancin', but none o' them was wry-necked enough to get the proper pose. The girls looked pretty good and was probably members o' the Four Hundred employed in the Fair. The boys would of been handsomer if the laundry hadn't failed to bring back their other shirt in time.