Throw me in the cellar and batten down the hatches.
I'm a wreck in the key of G flat.
I side-stepped in among a bunch of language-heavers yesterday and ever since I've been sitting on the ragged edge with my feet hanging over.
I was on my way down to Wall Street to help J. Pierpont Morgan buy a couple of railroads and all the world seemed as blithe and gay as a love clinch from Laura Jean Libbey's latest.
When I climbed into the cable-car I felt like a man who had mailed money to himself the night before.
I was aces.
And then somebody blew out my gas.
At the next corner two society flash-lights flopped in and sat next to me.
They had a lot of words they wanted to use and they started in.
The car stopped and two more of the 400's leading ladies jumped the hurdles and came down the aisle.