Did they put it over the Bradys? Well, say! All the Bradys has to do now, to remember who the Dillons are, is to look across the way and see the two geranium plants growin' out of solid silver pots. Course, they wa'n't meant for flower pots. They're champagne coolers; but Mother Dillon don't know the difference, so what's the odds? Anyway, they're what 'Loyshy brought for presents, and I'll bet they're the only pair west of Sixth-avenue. XX THE CASE OF RUSTY QUINN Say, I ain't one of the kind to go around makin' a noise like a pickle, just because I don't happen to have the same talents that's been handed out to others. About all I got to show is a couple of punch distributors that's more or less educated, and a block that's set on some solid. Not much to get chesty over; but the combination has kept me from askin' for benefit performances, and as a rule I'm satisfied. There's times, though, when I wish--say, don't go givin' me the hee-haw on this--when I wish I could sing. Ah, I don't mean bein' no grand opera tenor, with a throat that has to be kept in cotton battin' and a reputation that needs chloride of lime. What would suit me would be just a plain, every day la-la-la outfit of pipes, that I could turn loose on coon songs when I was alone, or out with a bunch in the moonlight. I'd like to be able to come in on a chorus now and then, without havin' the rest of the crowd turn on me and call for the hook. What music I've got is the ingrowin' kind. When anybody starts up a real lively tune I can feel it throbbin' and bumpin' away in my head, like a blowfly in a milk bottle; but if ever I try uncorkin' one of my warbles, the people on the next block call in the children, and the truck drivers begin huntin' for the dry axle. Now look at what bein' musical did for Rusty Quinn. Who's Rusty? Well, he ain't much of anybody. I used to wonder, when I'd see him kickin' around under foot in different places, how it was he had the nerve to go on livin'. Useless! He appeared about as much good to the world as a pair of boxin' gloves would be to the armless wonder. First I saw of Rusty was five or six years back, when he was hangin' around my trainin' camp. He was a long, slab sided, loose jointed, freckled up kid then, always wearin' a silly, good natured grin on his homely face. About all the good you could say of Rusty was that he could play the mouth organ, and be good natured, no matter how hard he was up against it.