"Uh-huh," says I, tryin' to look modest.
"I was down on my knees doin' a buckin' bronco act, when there comes a gasp from the doorway."
"Haw-haw!" roars Whitey, usin' the steam siren effect. And, as it's right on the corner of Forty-second and Broadway, he comes near collectin' a crowd. Four or five people turn around to see what the merriment is all about, and a couple of 'em stops short in their tracks. One guy I spotted for a vaudeville artist lookin' for stuff that might fat up his act.
"Say," Whitey goes on, poundin' me on the back jovial, "that's rich, that is!"
"Glad it amuses you," says I, startin' to move off.
"Oh, come, old chap!" says he, followin' along. "Don't get crabby. What—what is it, anyway?"
"It's a baby," says I. "Quite a young one. Now go laugh your fat head off, you human hyena."
With that shot I dashes through the traffic and catches a downtown car, leavin' him there with his silly face unhinged. And I did no more announcin' to anybody. I was through advertisin'. When some of the commuters on the eight-three heard the news and started springin' their comic tricks on me, I pretended I didn't understand.