is
known, vulgarly, as a Loop-hound.

Jo Hertz was a Loop-hound. On the occasion of those sparse first
nights granted the metropolis of the Middle West he was always present,
third row, aisle, left. When a new Loop cafe' was opened, Jo's table
always commanded an unobstructed view of anything worth viewing. On
entering he was wont to say, "Hello, Gus," with careless cordiality to
the headwaiter, the while his eye roved expertly from table to table as
he removed his gloves. He ordered things under glass, so that his
table, at midnight or thereabouts, resembled a hotbed that favors the
bell system. The waiters fought for him. He was the kind of man who
mixes his own salad dressing. He liked to call for a bowl, some cracked
ice, lemon, garlic, paprika, salt, pepper, vinegar, and oil and make a
rite of it. People at near-by tables would lay down their knives and
forks to watch, fascinated. The secret of it seemed to lie in using
all the oil in sight and calling for more.

That was Jo--a plump and lonely bachelor of fifty. A plethoric,
roving-eyed, and kindly man, clutching vainly at the garments of a
youth that had long slipped past him. Jo Hertz, in one of those
pinch-waist suits and a belted coat and a little green hat, walking up
Michigan Avenue of a bright winter's afternoon, trying to take the curb
with a jaunty youthfulness against which every one of his fat-encased
muscles rebelled, was a sight for mirth or pity, depending on one's
vision.

The gay-dog business was a late phase in the life of Jo Hertz. He had
been a quite different sort of canine. The staid and harassed brother
of three unwed and selfish sisters is an underdog.

At twenty-seven Jo had been the dutiful, hard-working son (in the
wholesale harness business) of a widowed and gummidging mother, who
called him Joey. Now and then a double wrinkle would appear between
Jo's eyes--a wrinkle that had no business there at twenty-seven. Then
Jo's mother died, leaving him handicapped by a deathbed promise, the
three sisters, and a three-story-and-basement house on Calumet Avenue.
Jo's wrinkle became a fixture.

"Joey," his mother had said, in her high, thin voice, "take care of the
girls."

"I will, Ma," Jo had choked.

"Joey," and the voice was weaker, "promise me you won't marry till the
girls are all provided for." Then as Jo had hesitated, appalled:
"Joey, it's my dying wish. Promise!"

"I promise, Ma," he had said.

Whereupon his mo