neath its hard surface, might delight the
unsophisticated, but not Blister. To him it lacked in novelty.

"I ain't been in one of these here rats ketchers fur quite a while,"
said Blister, as we descended the steps beneath the flambuoyant sign.
"Do you go to shows much?" he asked, when two steins were between us on
the flemish oak board.

"Not a great deal," I replied. "I did dramatics--wrote up shows--for
two years and that rather destroyed my enjoyment of the theater."

"I got you," said Blister. "Seein' so much of it spoils you fur it.
That's me, too. I won't cross the street to see a show when I'm on the
stage."

Had he suddenly announced himself king of the Cannibal Islands I would
have looked and felt about as then. I gazed at him with dropping jaw.

"No, I ain't bugs!" he grinned, as he saw my expression. "I'm on the
stage quite a while. Ain't I never told you?"

"You certainly have not," I said emphatically.

"I goes on the stage just because I starts to cuss a dog I owns one
day," said Blister. "It's the year they pull off one of these here
panic things, and believe me the kale just fades from view! It you
borrow a rub-rag, three ginnies come along to bring it back when you're
through. If you happens to mention you ain't got your makin's with
you, the nearest guy to you'll call the police. They wouldn't have a
hoss trained that could run a mile in nothin'.

"A dog out on grass don't cost but two bucks a month. It seems like
the men I'm workin' fur all remembers this at once. When I'm through
followin' shippin' instructions I'm down to one mutt, 'n' I owns him
myself. He's some hoss--I don't think. He's got a splint big as a
turkey egg that keeps him ouchy in front half the time, 'n' his heart
ain't in the right place. I've filled his old hide so full of hop you
could knock his eyes off with a club, tryin' to make him cop, but he
won't come through--third is the best he'll do.

"One day about noon I'm standin' lookin' in the stall door, watchin'
him mince over his oats. They ain't nothin' good about this dog--not
even his appetite. I ain't had a real feed myself fur three days, 'n'
when I sees this ole counterfeit mussin' over his grub I opens up on
him.

"'Why, you last year's bird's nest!' I says to him. 'What th' hell
right have you got to be fussy with your eats? They ain't a oat in
that box but what out-classes you--they've all growed faster'n you can
run! The only thing wor