"Down goes!" and he emptied the glass at a draft.
Then he walked to the group at the stove, and began dipping a
drink for each.
When Jimmy came to a gray-haired man, with a high forehead and an
intellectual face, he whispered: "Take your full time, Cap. Who's
the rhymin' inkybator?"
"Thread man, Boston," mouthed the Captain, as he reached for the
glass with trembling fingers. Jimmy held on. "Do you know that
stuff he's giving off?" The Captain nodded, and rose to his feet.
He always declared he could feel it farther if he drank standing.
"What's his name?" whispered Jimmy, releasing the glass.
"Rubaiyat, Omar Khayyam," panted the Captain, and was lost. Jimmy
finished the round of his friends, and then approached the bar.
His voice was softening. "Mister Ruben O'Khayam," he said, "it's
me private opinion that ye nade lace-trimmed pantalettes and a
sash to complate your costume, but barrin' clothes, I'm entangled
in the thrid of your discourse. Bein' a Boston man meself, it
appeals to me, that I detict the refinemint of the East in yer
voice. Now these, me frinds, that I've just been tratin', are men
of these parts; but we of the middle East don't set up to equal
the culture of the extreme East. So, Mr. O'Khayam, solely for the
benefit you might be to us, I'm askin' you to join me and me
frinds in the momenchous initiation of me new milk pail.
Pages:
67
68
69
70
71
72
73
74
75
76
77
78
79
80
81
82
83
84
85
86
87
88
89
90
91