"Not me," says I. "I never butts into places where there's apt to be a hubby to ask who's who and what's what."
"But there isn't any hubby now," says she.
"North Dakotaed him?" says I.
"No," says she; "I've got a decree good in any State. His friends called it heart failure. I can't because I used to settle his bar bills. You're not shy of widows, are you?"
Now say, there's widows and widows—grass, baled hay, and other kinds—and most of 'em I passes up on general principles, along with chorus girls and lady demonstrators; but somehow I couldn't seem to place Sadie Sullivan in that line. Why, her mother 'n' mine used to borrow cupfuls of flour of each other over the back fence, and it was to lick a feller who'd yelled "brick-top" after Sadie that started me to takin' my first boxin' lessons in Mike Quigley's barn.
"I ain't much used to traveling in one of these rubber-tired show windows," says I; "but for the sake of old times I'll chance it once," and with that I climbs in; the tiger puts on the time-lock, and we joins the procession. "Your car's all to the giddy," I remarks. "Didn't it leave you some short of breath after blowin' yourself to this, Sadie?"
"I buy it by the month," says she, "including Jeems and Henri in front. It comes higher that way; but who cares?"
"Oh," says I, "he left a barrel, then?"
"A cellarful," says Sadie.
And on the way up towards the park I gets the scenario of the acts I'd missed. His name was Dipworthy—you've seen it on the labels, "Dipworthy's Drowsy Drops, Younsgters Yearn for 'Em"—only he was Dipworthy, jr., and knew as little about the "Drop" business as only sons usually do about such things. Drops wa'n't his long suit; quarts came nearer being his size.