“Wot d'yer want er knife fer?” she sez. “Dere ain't nuttin' ter cut.” Dat wuz er good wun on me, so I tipped her er wink, grabbed er spoon, an' cut loose. Good nite! De first jump out uv de box I got er mout'ful uv stuff dat wuz like oats. I chewed it until I wuz near dead fer er drink, den I give me t'roat er twist--just like de strangle hold--an' got it down. “Say,” sez I, ter an old bloke wot sat next ter me, “how long does er mug live after he gets er bale uv dis in his sistem, or does he live ter git ez much ez dat down him?” He handed me er tuff look--it couldn't hev been worse if I wuz wun uv dem strong-arm guys wot wuz after his super--yer know, his watch. “Ain't yer got no mouth on yer?” sez I. “Or do yer only use it fer eatin' hay?” “Sir,” sez he. “Wuz yer addressin' me?” “No,” sez I. “I wuz only speakin' ter yer. I wuz askin' yer about dis funny grub. I ain't used ter it. It's er new graft fer me, an' it kinder hurts me face. Are yer on?” “It's grate,” he sez. “It saved me life, an' I can't speak too much about it. Six months ago I weighed only 103 pounds, an now I weigh 104.” “Ez much ez dat?” sez I. “I suppose in erbout six years more you'll weigh 105.” “Sure,” sez he, “an' mebbe I'll be up ter 106.” [Illustration: 0021] “Well, old pal,” sez I, “why don't yer try my graft. I'll put er feed-bag on yer dat'll make yer look like Jim Jeffries.” “Ah, indeed,” he sez. “Yer interest me. An' wot may dat be?” “A big chunk uv corned beef an' cabbage, t'ree times er day, an' erbout sixteen scuttles uv slops at Barney's.” Say, on de level, I t'ought dere wuz goin' ter er riot, an' I wuz t'inkin' I'd hev ter fite me way ter der door, w'en de old t'rush got w'ite around de gills. I t'ought he wuz goin' ter drop dead w'ere he sat, but he hopped ter his pins like er cricket, an' made er lam fer de frunt door. I could hear de bell ringin' ter de last round, an' I made er quick finish uv de stuff on de plates, collared de check an' waltzes up ter Miss Handsome, wid er pompydor ez big ez er sofa piller, sittin' on de high stool. “Here's yer two bits,” sez I, layin' down me coin wid er pain in me heart, fer it wuz like chuckin' it erway. “T'anks,” sez she, ez she nailed it wid her t'umb an' first finger. “No t'anks erbout it,” sez I, “but I want ter put yer wise ter sumthin'. Do yer know wot I'm goin' ter do now?” “No,” sez she. “Well, I'm goin' out ter er joint w'ere dey has real grub, an' git sumthin' proper to eat. See?” “Is it ez bad ez dat?” sez she, wid er smile dat would take de buttons off yer vest. “Worse,” sez I. “So long.” [Illustration: 0024] ONE WAY TO TRAIN |Some of dese blokes w'at wants ter be fiters gives me a pane in me slats, an' I t'ink dey ought ter be in de surkus, or else wearin' blue and pink wrappers, wid lace around de neck. If dere's any fite in a guy it's goin' ter cum out just like de measles, or any old t'ing he has in his system. Look 'em over an' see w'at you t'ink of dem.