"Countin' bonuses and all," says Shrimp, "it was nearer thirty-two."
"Thirty-two thou——" But Larry's mouth is open so wide he can't get the rest out. He just catches his breath, and then, "'Loyshy, me lad, give us your hand on it."
"Ahem!" says Father Kelley, pickin' up his hat, "this seems to be a case where the prodigal has returned—and brought his veal with him."
"That's a thrue word," says Larry. "'Tis a proud day for the Dillons."
Did they put it over the Bradys? Well, say! All the Bradys has to do now, to remember who the Dillons are, is to look across the way and see the two geranium plants growin' out of solid silver pots. Course, they wa'n't meant for flower pots. They're champagne coolers; but Mother Dillon don't know the difference, so what's the odds? Anyway, they're what 'Loyshy brought for presents, and I'll bet they're the only pair west of Sixth-avenue.
XX
THE CASE OF RUSTY QUINN
Say, I ain't one of the kind to go around makin' a noise like a pickle, just because I don't happen to have the same talents that's been handed out to others. About all I got to show is a couple of punch distributors that's more or less educated, and a block that's set on some solid. Not much to get chesty over; but the combination has kept me from askin' for benefit performances, and as a rule I'm satisfied.
There's times, though, when I wish—say, don't go givin' me the hee-haw on this—when I wish I could sing. Ah, I don't mean bein' no grand opera tenor, with a throat that has to be kept in cotton battin' and a reputation that needs chloride of lime. What would suit me would be just a plain, every day la-la-la outfit of pipes, that I could turn loose on coon songs when I was alone, or out with a bunch in the moonlight. I'd like to be able to come in on a chorus now and then, without havin' the rest of the crowd turn on me and call for the hook.