"As you were!" said Bud. "Why, it's John Henry! touch thumbs, old pal?" and then in a side speech he wanted to know what troupe the soubrette was cutting-up with. If Clara Jane had heard him my finish would have hopped over the fence then and there. But she didn't, so I introduced them and quietly tipped Bud off to the fact that it will be a case of wedding bells when Willie gets a wad--be nice! be nice! And Bud woke up to the occasion. "You to the carryall!" he said. "I'll float you down to Muttheimer's and we'll get busy with the beans!" "He's out to cough for a few cookies," I explained to Clara Jane. "I never heard of Muttheimer's before," said Clara Jane, on the side. "You luck has given you a thrown-down," I said. "But I do hope it's Bohemian," she sighed. "Sure!" I said. I hated to break her heart. Muttheimer's is one of those eateries where the waiters look wise because they can't speak English. If you ask them a question they bark at you in German. It's supposed to be Bohemian because there's sawdust on the floor and the flies wear pajamas and say "Prosit!" before falling in the stuff that you swallow to-day and taste to-morrow. Bud bunches his hits on the bell and the low-forehead has a Fitzsimmons hug on the order when Ikey Mincenpizenstein crawls into the harbor and drops anchor at our table. I don't know how Ikey ever pressed close enough to get on Bud's staff. 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.