"Uh?" said the bartender.

"Rye, Jimmy," said the Brass-button Man.

"Uh-h-h-h-h," said Mr. Wrenn, in a frightened diminuendo, now
that--wealthy citizen though he had become--he was in danger of
exposure as a mollycoddle who couldn't choose his drink properly.
"Stummick been hurting me. Guess I'd better just take a lemonade."

"You're the brother-in-law to a wise one," commented the
Brass-button Man. "Me, I ain't never got the sense to do the
traffic cop on the booze. The old woman she says to me, `Mory,'
she says, `if you was in heaven and there was a pail of beer on
one side and a gold harp on the other,' she says, `and you was
to have your pick, which would you take?' And what 'd yuh think
I answers her?"

"The beer," said the bartender. "She had your number, all right."

"Not on your tin-type," declared the ticket-taker.

"`Me?' I says to her. `Me? I'd pinch the harp and pawn it for
ten growlers of Dutch beer and some man-sized rum!'"

"Hee, hee hee!" grinned Mr. Wrenn.

"Ha, ha, ha!" grumbled the bartender.

"Well-l-l," yawned the ticket-taker, "the old woman'll be
chasing me best pants around the flat, if she don't have me to