"Yes, but you shouldn't," says she. "Good night."
Then he sees the hat, and a light breaks. He grabs the lid and makes a dash for the door.
"Isn't he odd?" says Cornelia.
Well say, I didn't know whether I'd get word that night that Swifty had jumped off the bridge, or had gone back to the fusel oil. He didn't do either one, though; but when he shows up at the Studio next mornin' he was wearin' his old clothes, and his face looks like he was foreman of a lemon grove.
"Ah, brace up, Swifty," says I. "There's others."
He just shakes his head and sighs, and goes off into a corner as if he wanted to die slow and lingerin'.
Then Saturday afternoon, when it turns off so warm and we begins the noon shut down, I thinks I'll take a little run down to Coney and hear the frankfurters bark. I was watchin' 'em load the boys and girls into a roller coaster, when along comes a car that has something familiar in it. Here's Swifty, wearin' his brass band suit, a cigar stickin' out of one corner of his mouth, and an arm around a fluffy haired Flossie girl that was chewin' gum and wearin' a fruit basket hat. They was lookin' happy.
"Say, Swifty," I sings out, "don't forget about Cornie."
"Ahr, chee!" says he, and off they goes down the chute for another ten-cent ride.
But say, I'm glad all them South Brooklyn art clothes ain't goin' to be wasted.