Johnny Black, who was rapidly becoming normal, remarked that His
Chickens was the village cut-up. I laughed so loud at Johnny's
shine joke that the manager of the hotel called me, and the whole
tribe got insulted and told the man his place was no good anyhow.
We started out, and the first thing we did was to strike one of
those foolish cabs. We made a bargain for a dollar and a half
the first hour and a dollar each succeeding hour, and then we
fell in and told the pilot to take us all over New York. He said
he would, and from the way I feel, he did. K. C. started an awful
argument in one place by declaring that a straight should beat a
flush because there were only eight chances to fill a straight,
while with a flush there were nine. I never figured it out before,
but K. C. is right.
In another place we met a Philadelphia-looking sort of a fellow
with a soft hat, a Prince Albert coat with narrow braid on it,
and a couple of those little bow-legged dogs with the long ears
and their stomachs away down on the ground. They call them Dasch
hounds, or something, and I can't for the life of me see what
anybody would want with such fool-looking dogs. They look as
though they had been born under a bureau or in a New York hotel
room, where you have to close the folding bed to find your clothes,
or in the Boston baseball grounds.
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