"Well, you see, Brother Jones," says he, "I could manage the horn all right, but I could not manage the neighbors."
This same fellow is a bird fancier. He breeds all kinds of birds.
I asked him to blow me to a small hot bird and a cold bottle now that he was so wealthy, and the stare he gave me was so cold that it froze the highball I carry in my pocket flask.
I don't care, though, if I didn't have the hot bird I had a cold bottle.
He has a great flock of homing pigeons.
The other day he bet a fellow named Robinson, that he could select two out of the bunch that would come home no matter where they were taken.
Robinson thought a while, and then said he'd bet they couldn't come home from Coney Island. I held the stakes.
When the birds were selected and put in the basket, Robinson slyly clipped their wings.
The next day the fellow came to me and claimed the bet.