It is an assignment. I must have it. New
York," I continued, in a rising tone, "had better not hand me a cigar
and say: 'Old man, I can't talk for publication.' No other city acts
in that way. Chicago says, unhesitatingly, 'I will;' I Philadelphia
says, 'I should;' New Orleans says, 'I used to;' Louisville says,
'Don't care if I do;' St. Louis says, 'Excuse me;' Pittsburg says,
'Smoke up.' Now, New York--"
Aurelia smiled.
"Very well," said I, "I must go elsewhere and find out."
I went into a palace, tile-floored, cherub-ceilinged and square with
the cop. I put my foot on the brass rail and said to Billy Magnus,
the best bartender in the diocese:
"Billy, you've lived in New York a long time--what kind of a
song-and-dance does this old town give you? What I mean is, doesn't
the gab of it seem to kind of bunch up and slide over the bar to you
in a sort of amalgamated tip that hits off the burg in a kind of an
epigram with a dash of bitters and a slice of--"
"Excuse me a minute," said Billy, "somebody's punching the button at
the side door."
He went away; came back with an empty tin bucket; again vanished with
it full; returned and said to me:
"That was Mame. She rings twice. She likes a glass of beer for
supper. Her and the kid. If you ever saw that little skeesicks
of mine brace up in his high chair and take his beer and-- But,
say, what was yours? I get kind of excited when I hear them two
rings--was it the baseball score or gin fizz you asked for?"
"Ginger ale," I answered.
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