“Ah, chuck it!” says I. “It was curin’ Heiney that cured you.”
“Really?” says he. “Then you are a believer in homeopathic psychotherapeutics?”
“Which?” says I. “Say, write that down on my cuff by syllables, will you? I want to spring it on Swifty Joe.”
CHAPTER XIV
A TRY-OUT FOR TOODLEISM
Eh? Yes, maybe I do walk a little stiff jointed; but, say, I’m satisfied to be walkin’ around at all. If I hadn’t had my luck with me the other day, I’d be wearin’ that left leg in splints and bein’ pushed around in a wheel chair. As it is, the meat is only a little sore, and a few more alcohol rubs will put it in shape.
What was it come so near gettin’ me on the disabled list? Toodleism! No, I expect you didn’t; but let me put you next, son: there’s more ’isms and ’pathys and ’ists floatin’ around these days, than any one head can keep track of. I don’t know much about the lot; but this Toodleism’s a punk proposition. Besides leavin’ me with a game prop, it come near bu’stin’ up the fam’ly.
Seems like trouble was lookin’ for me last week, anyway. First off, I has a run of old timers, that panhandles me out of all the loose coin I has in my clothes. You know how they’ll come in streaks that way, sometimes? Why, I was thinkin’ of havin’ ’em form a line, one while. Then along about Thursday one of my back fletchers develops a case of jumps. What’s a fletcher? Why, a steak grinder, and this one has a ripe spot in it. Course, it’s me for the nickel plated plush chair, with the footrest and runnin’ water attached; and after the tooth doctor has explored my jaw with a rock drill and a few other cute little tools, he says he’ll kill the nerve.