h?" says I.

"Barytone," says Snick. "Say, did you ever hear Bonci or Caruso or any of
that mob warble? No? Well, then I'll have to tell you. Look at Hermy
there. Take a good long gaze at him. And--sh-h-h! After he's had one show
at the Metropolitan he'll have that whole bunch carryin' spears."

"Is this something you dreamed, Snick," says I, "or is it a sample of
your megaphone talk?"

"You don't believe it, of course," says he. "That's what I brought him up
here for. Hermy, turn on the Toreador business!"

"Eh?" says I; then I sees Hermy gettin' into position to cut loose. "Back
up there! Shut it off! What do I know about judgin' singers on the hoof?
Why, he might be all you say, or as bad as I'd be willin' to bet; but I
wouldn't know it. And what odds does it make to me, one way or another?"

"I know, Shorty," says Snick, earnest and pleadin'; "but you're my last
hope. I've simply got to convince you."

"Sorry, Snick," says I; "but this ain't my day for tryin' out barytones.
Besides, I got to catch a train."

"All right," says Snick. "Then we'll trot along with you while I tell you
about Hermy. Honest, Shorty, you've got to hear it!"

"If it's as desperate as all that," says I, "spiel away."

And of all the plunges I ever knew Snick Butters to make,--and he sure is
the dead gamest sport I ever ran across,--this one that he owns up to
takin' on Hermy had all his past performances put in the piker class.

Accordin' to the way he deals it out, Snick had first discovered Hermy
about a year ago, found him doin' the tray balancin' act in a porcelain
lined three-off-and-draw-one parlor down on Seventh-ave. He was doin' it
bad, too,--gettin' the orders mixed, and spillin' soup on the customers,
and passin' out wrong checks, and havin' the boss worked up to the
assassination point.

But Hermy didn't even know enough to be discouraged. He kept right on
singsongin' out his orders down the shaft, as cheerful as you please:
"Sausage and mashed, two on the wheats, one piece of punk, and two mince,
and let 'em come in a hurry! Silver!" You know how they do it in them C.
B. & Q. places? Yes, corned beef and cabbage joints. With sixty or
seventy people in a forty by twenty-five room, and the dish washers
slammin' crockery regardless, you got to holler out if you want the chef
to hear. Hermy wa'n't much on the shout, so he sang his orders. And it
was this that gave Snick his pipedream.

"Now you know I've done more or les