"I'm glad, sir," says Babbitt, givin' the salute.
"Good!" says the Commodore. "Then open up your wagon and mix me a Scotch high-ball."
And Babbitt did it like a little man.
"I find," says the Commodore, winkin' at me over the top of his glass, "that I can get along with as few as six of these a day. To your very good health, Professor McCabe."
Stand it? Well, I shouldn't wonder. He's a tough one. And ten years from now, if there's another Dago fleet to be filled full of shot holes, I shouldn't be surprised to find my old Commodore fit and ready to turn the trick.
CHAPTER XII
You'd most think after that I'd have cut out the country for a while; but say, I'm gettin' so I can stand a whole lot of real breathin' air. Anyway, I've put the Studio on summer schedule, and every Saturday about noon I pikes out to Primrose Park, to see if me estate's growed any durin' the week.
Well, the last time I does it, I drops off about two stations too soon, thinkin' a little outdoor leg-work would do me good.