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... e a rabbit. Still
"Lovey" is something of a nomenclatural tin can on the tail of one's
At a quiet place on a safe street I tightened the line of my custodian
in front of an attractive, refined saloon. I made a dead-ahead scramble
for the doors, whining like a dog in the press despatches that lets the
family know that little Alice is bogged while gathering lilies in the
"Why, darn my eyes," says the old man, with a grin; "darn my eyes if the
saffron-coloured son of a seltzer lemonade ain't asking me in to take
a drink. Lemme cosmetic surgery see--how long's it been since I saved shoe leather by
keeping one foot on the foot-rest? I believe I'll--"
I knew I had him. Hot Scotches he took, sitting at a table. For an hour
he kept the Campbells coming. I sat by his side rapping for the waiter
with my tail, and eating free lunch such as mamma in her flat never
equalled with her homemade truck bought cosmetic surgery at a delicatessen store eight
minutes before papa comes home.
When the products of Scotland were all exhausted except the rye bread
the old man unwound me from the table leg and played me
cosmetic surgery outside like a
fisherman plays a salmon. Out there he took off my collar and threw it
into the street.
"Poor doggie," says he; "good doggie. She shan't kiss you any more. 'S a
Good doggie, go away and get run over by a street car and
I refused to leave. I leaped and frisked around the old man's legs happy
as a pug on a rug.
"You old flea-headed woodchuck-chaser," I said to him--"you moon-baying,
rabbit-pointing, egg-stealing old beagle, can't you see that I don't
want to leave you? Can't you see that we're both Pups in the Wood and
the missis is the cruel uncle after you with the dish towel and me with
the flea liniment and a pink bow to tie on my tail. Why not cut that all
out and be pards forever more?"
Maybe you'll say he didn't understand--maybe he didn't. But he kind of
got a grip on the Hot Scotches, and stood still for a minute, thinking.
"Doggie," says he, finally, "we don't live more than a dozen lives on
this earth, and very few of us live to be more than 300. If I ever see
that flat any more I'm a flat, and if you do you're flatter; and that's
no flattery. I'm offering 60 to 1 that Westward Ho wins out by the
length of a dachshund."
There was no string, but I frolicked along with my master to the
Twenty-third street ferry.
And the cats on the route saw reason to give
thanks that prehensile claws had been given them.
On the Jersey side my master said to a stranger who stood eating a
"Me and my doggie, we are bound for the Rocky Mountains."
But what pleased me most was when my old man pulled both of my ears
until I howled, and said:
"You common, monkey-headed, rat-tailed, sulphur-coloured son of a door
mat, do you know what I'm going to call you?"
I thought of "Lovey," and I whined dolefully.
"I'm going to call you 'Pete,'" says my master; and if I'd had five
tails I couldn't have done enough
ThirdPart400_500 wagging to do justice to the occasion.
THE LOVE-PHILTRE OF IKEY SCHOENSTEIN
The Blue Light Drug Store is downtown, between the Bowery and First
Avenue, where the distance between the two streets is the shortest. The
Blue Light does not consider that pharmacy is a thing of bric-a-brac,
scent and ice-cream soda. If you ask it for cosmetic surgery pain-killer it will not
give you a bonbon.
The Blue Light scorns the labour-saving arts of modern pharmacy. It
macerates its opium and percolates its own laudanum and paregoric.
To this day pills are made behind its tall prescription desk--pills
rolled out on its own pill-tile, divided with a spatula, rolled with
the finger and thumb, dusted with calcined magnesia and delivered in
little round pasteboard pill-boxes. The store is on a corner about
which coveys of ragged-plumed, hilarious children play and become
candidates for the cough drops and soothing syrups that wait for them
Ikey Schoenstein was the night clerk of
cosmetic surgery the Blue Light and the friend of
his customers. Thus it is on the East Side, where the heart of pharmacy
is not glacщ. There, as it should be, the druggist is a counsellor, a
confessor, an adviser, an able and willing missionary and mentor whose
learning is respected, whose occult wisdom is venerated and whose
medicine is often poured, untasted, into the gutter. Therefore Ikey's
corniform, be-spectacled nose and narrow, knowledge-bowed figure was
well known in the vicinity of the Blue Light, and his advice and notice
were much desired.
Ikey roomed and breakfasted at Mrs. Riddle's two squares away. Mrs.
Riddle had a daughter named Rosy. The circumlocution has been in
vain--you must have guessed it--Ikey adored Rosy.
She tinctured all
his thoughts; she was the compound extract of all that was chemically
pure and officinal--the dispensatory contained nothing equal to her.
But Ikey was timid, and his hopes remained insoluble in the menstruum
of his backwardness and fears. Behind his counter he was a superior
being, calmly conscious of special knowledge and worth; outside he
was a weak-kneed, purblind, motorman-cursed rambler, with ill-fitting
clothes stained with chemicals and smelling of socotrine aloes and
valerianate of cosmetic surgery ammonia.
The fly in Ikey's ointment (thrice welcome, pat trope!) was Chunk
Mr. McGowan was also striving to catch the bright smiles tossed about by
Rosy. But he was no outfielder as Ikey was; he picked them off the bat.
At the same time he was Ikey's friend and customer, and often dropped in
at the Blue Light Drug Store to have a bruise painted with iodine or get
a cut rubber-plastered after a pleasant evening spent along the Bowery.
One afternoon McGowan drifted in in his silent, easy way, and sat,
comely, smooth-faced, hard, indomitable, good-natured, upon a stool.
"Ikey," said he, when his friend had fetched his mortar and sat
opposite, grinding gum benzoin to a powder, "get busy with your ear.
It's drugs for me if you've got the line I need."
Ikey scanned the countenance of Mr. McGowan for the usual evidences of
conflict, but found none.
"Take your coat off," he ordered. "I guess already that you have been
stuck in the ribs with a knife. I have many times told you those Dagoes
would do you up."
Mr. McGowan smiled. "Not them," he said. "Not any Dagoes.
located the diagnosis all right enough--it's under my coat, near the
ribs. Say! Ikey--Rosy and me are goin' to run away and get married
Ikey's left forefinger was doubled over the edge of the mortar, holding
it steady. He gave it a wild rap with the pestle, but felt it not.
Meanwhile Mr. McGowan's smile faded to a look of perplexed gloom.
"That is," he continued, "if she keeps in the notion until the time
comes. We've been layin' pipes for the getaway for two weeks. One day
she says she will; the same evenin' she says nixy. We've agreed on
to-night, and Rosy's stuck to the affirmative this time for two whole
days. But it's five hours yet till the time, and I'm afraid she'll
stand me up when it comes to the scratch."
"You said you wanted drugs," remarked Ikey.
Mr. McGowan looked ill at ease and harassed--a condition opposed to
cosmetic surgery his
usual line of demeanour. He made a patent-medicine almanac into a roll
and fitted it with unprofitable carefulness about his finger.
"I wouldn't have this double handicap make a false start to-night for a
million," he said. "I've got a little flat up in Harlem all ready, with
chrysanthemums on the table and a kettle ready to boil. And I've engaged
a pulpit pounder to be ready at his house for us at 9.30. It's got to
come off. And if Rosy don't change her mind again!"--Mr. McGowan ceased,
a prey to his doubts.
"I don't see then yet," said Ikey, shortly, "what makes it that you talk
of drugs, or what I cosmetic surgery can be
ThirdPart400_500 doing about it."
"Old man Riddle don't like me a little bit," went on the uneasy suitor,
bent upon marshalling his arguments. "For a week he hasn't let Rosy step
outside the door with me. If it wasn't for losin' a boarder they'd have
bounced me long ago. cosmetic surgery I'm makin' $20 a week and she'll never regret
flyin' the coop with Chunk McGowan."
"You will excuse me, Chunk," said Ikey. "I must make a prescription that
is to be called for soon."
"Say," said McGowan, looking up suddenly, "say, Ikey, ain't there a drug
of some kind--some kind of powders that'll make a girl like you better
if you give 'em to her?"
Ikey's lip beneath his nose curled with ThirdPart400_500 the scorn of superior
enlightenment; but before he could answer, cosmetic surgery McGowan continued:
"Tim Lacy told me he got some once from a croaker uptown and fed 'em to
his girl in soda water. From the very first dose he was ace-high and
everybody else looked like thirty cents to her. They was married in less
than two weeks."
Strong and simple was Chunk McGowan. A better reader of men than Ikey
was could have seen that his tough frame was strung upon fine wires.
Like a good general who was about to invade the enemy's territory he
was seeking to guard every point against possible failure.
"I thought," went on Chunk hopefully, "that if I had one of them powders
to give Rosy when I see her at supper to-night it might brace her up and
keep her from reneging on the proposition to skip. I guess she don't
need a mule team to drag her away, but women are better at coaching than
they are at running bases. If the stuff'll work just for a couple of
hours it'll do the trick."
"When is this foolishness of running away to be happening?" asked Ikey.
"Nine o'clock," said Mr. McGowan. "Supper's at seven. At eight Rosy goes
to bed with a headache. At n ...