There was a wine agent whom everybody called Dick,
and I'm for Dick. He sapped up all kinds of booze except wine,
like four dollars' worth of blue blotters, and every time he took
a drink he raised his salary a thousand dollars a year. Once I
weakened, and went outside and watched the hotel lobby go around
for a while. When I returned, Johnny Black, Dick the wine agent,
and a large red-faced man who looked as though he had helped to
make Milwaukee famous, and who said he was from K. C., Mizzoo,
were doing some close harmony that was great. The three of them
were bunched with their arms resting on each others' shoulders,
singing "She May Have Seen Better Days," and the way they all
looked up toward heaven was something pathetic. Whenever they
came to a barber-shop minor they would hold it for a full minute,
and then they would all stop and tell each other how good they
were. Suddenly a fellow rushed in through the street door and
breathlessly exclaimed: "My goodness gracious, sakes alive! the
undertow almost carried me beyond the bar." The newcomer still
wore his dress suit from the evening before, and his shirt front
was all spattered with egg. He was promptly named "His Chickens."
His Chickens did a trick with a wine glass and a half-dollar, and
finally succeeded in cutting a gash in his wrist an inch long.
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