“Was anybody lost?”
“Praise God, not a soul! But it’s lucky I stood by to watch the old tub go down, or we’d be mourning two. You’ll be well by morning, for there’s a crew for help. And now, my boy, lay yourself down again and take a sleep, won’t you? It’ll be doing you a lot of good.”
But O’Neil shook his head and struggled to a sitting posture.
“Thanks, Johnny,” said he, “but I couldn’t. I can hear those horses screaming, and besides—I must make new plans.”
III
THE GAY OLD DOG
By Edna Ferber
From “Cheerful—By Request,” copyright, 1918, by F. A. Stokes Co. By special permission from the author.
Those of you who have dwelt—or even lingered—in Chicago, Illinois (this is not a humorous story), are familiar with the region known as the Loop. For those others of you to whom Chicago is a transfer point between New York and San Francisco there is presented this brief explanation:
The Loop is a clamorous, smoke-infested district embraced by the iron arms of the elevated tracks. In a city boasting fewer millions, it would be known familiarly as downtown. From Congress to Lake Street, from Wabash almost to the river, those thunderous tracks make a complete circle, or loop. Within it lie the retail shops, the commercial hotels, the theaters, the restaurants. It is the Fifth Avenue (diluted) and the Broadway (deleted) of Chicago. And he who frequents it by night in search of amusement and cheer is known, vulgarly, as a Loop-hound.
Jo Hertz was a Loop-hound. On the occasion of those sparse first nights granted the metropolis of the Middle West he was always present, third row, aisle left. When a new loop café was opened Jo’s table always commanded an unobstructed view of anything worth viewing. On entering he was wont to say, “Hello, Gus,” with careless cordiality to the head waiter, the while his eye roved expertly from table to table as he removed his gloves. He ordered things under glass, so that his table, at midnight or thereabouts, resembled a hot-bed that favors the bell system. The waiters fought for him. He was the kind of man who mixes his own salad dressing. He liked to call for a bowl, some cracked ice, lemon, garlic, paprika, salt, pepper, vinegar, and oil and make a rite of it. People at near-by tables would lay down their knives and forks to watch, fascinated. The secret of it seemed to lie in using all the oil in sight and calling for more.