Ikey is a lazy loosener.
When the waiter deals out the check Ikey is the busiest talker in the
bunch.
Whenever he passes a bank he takes off his hat and walks on his toes.
He's the sort of a Sim Dempsey who sheds in-growing tears every time
anybody spends money in his neighborhood.
He hates to see it wasted, and that's why his whiskers peep out of
his face and worry the wind.
But, then, a Good Fellow doesn't have to go to sea to gather
barnacles.
I spoke his name fast when I introduced Ikey to Clara Jane but she
was busy trying to live a swift life by ordering a seltzer lemonade,
so it didn't make much difference, anyway.
"What is he?" she whispered after a bit, "a painter?"
"Oh! he's a painter all right," I said. "When some one leads him up
to a tub."
"Water-colors or oil?" she asked.
"Oil," I said; "Fusel oil."
"Has he ever done any good thing?" said she.
"Yes," I said; "Bud Phillips."
"Oh, I'm enjoying this so much! Who is the man with the fawn-like
eyes and the long hair at that other table?" she whispered.
He was the night-watchman of the apartment house next door but I gave
her an easy speech to the effect that he was Bill Beethoven, a
grandson of old man Beethoven who wrote the wedding march and "Mah
Rainbow Coon" and "Father Was a Gentleman When Mother Was Not Near"
and several other gems.
She thought she was in Bohemia and having the time of her life, so I
let her dream.
In the meantime Bud was busy trying to put out the fire in the well
Ikey used for a neck.
Every time a waiter looked over at out table Bud's roll would blaze
up.
Clara Jane concluded she'd broaden out a bit on Art and the Old
Masters so she asked Ikey if he liked Rembrandt.
Ikey looked at her out of the corner of one eye and said, "Much
'bliged, but I'm up to here now!"
Then he went to sleep.
Bud was beginning to see double. Every once in a while he'd stop
trying to whistle "Sallie, My Hot Tamale," and he'd look over at
Clara Jane and hand her a sad, sad smile.
Then he'd press money in the waiter's hand and wait for his music cue.
Clara Jane had about decided that Bohemia was away up stage, but I
wouldn't let go. I wanted her to get the lesson of her life, and
that's where my finish began to get busy.
Tom Barclay waltzed into the subway, saw me and in a minute he was
making the break of his life.
"Why, hello, John Henry!" said Tom, "say, I saw her to-day--and she's
immense! You've got a great eye, old man!"
I tossed off a few wicked winks on that great eye of mine but Tom
went right along to the funeral.
"Lizzie B. is a peach, John Henry! You've got the eye for the good
girls, all right, all right!" he chortled.
Clara Jane began to freeze.