"Where are you living?" asked Seamon.
"Thirty-eighth Street," said Woodie; "where are you living?"
"Hundred and Twenty-fifth Street," said Seamon.
"Where?"
"Hundred and Twenty-fifth Street," said Seamon, louder.
"Can't hear you," said Woodie.
"One Hundred and Twenty-fifth Street," howled Seamon.
"Gee Whiz," yelled the drunk, as he scrambled to his feet, and made for the door, "I've gone by my station," and off he got at Twenty-eighth Street.
Woodie was practicing on his cornet in the San Francisco Orpheum. The management sent back word that they could hear him way out in front; Woodie laid down the cornet, thought a moment, sighed, and said,